THE 

GOLDEN  BLIGHT 


BY 

GEORGE  ALLAN  ENGLAND 

AUTHOR   OF 

"THE  ALIBI,"  "DARKNESS  AND  DAWN."  ETC. 


FRONTISPIECE  BY 
C.  D.  WILLIAMS 


Pf 

"••Bft 


New  York 
THE  H.   K.   FLY  COMPANY 

Publishers 


Copyright,  1916,  by 
THE  H.  K.  FLY  COMPANY. 


PROSPECT   PRESS 


DEDICATED  TO 
COMRADE  JOSEPH  WANHOPE, 


"THE  GOLDEN  BLIGHT"  is  MEANT  TO  BE  BOTH  A  NOVEL  AND  AN 

ALLEGORY.       SHOULD   THE   READER   FIND   ONLY  ENTERTAINMENT 

THERE,    WELL    AND    GOOD;    BUT,    LOOKING    DEEPER,    SHOULD 

HE    CHANCE    TO    SEE    THE    INNER    MEANING,    THEN    I 

SHALL    KNOW    THAT    HE,    TOO,    HAS    READ    THE 

PORTENTS   OF   THIS   TROUBLED   TIME. 


3N  GIVING  THIS  BOOK  TO  THE  PUBLIC,  I  WISH   TO  MAKE   ACJCNOWL 
ZDGML'NT    FOR    ASSISTANCE    IN    FACTS    AND    PLOT    TO 

ROBERT  H.  DAVIS, 
GEORGE  R.  KIRKPATRICK, 

JOSEPH  WANHOPE. 

FOR  HELP  IN  REVISION  AND  PREPARATION  OF  THE  PROOFS,  19 
E.  O.  HOWARD. 


CONTENTS 


CHAPTER  PAGE 

I  A  QUESTION  OF  ASHES  .      .     :•:     ;•:     >        9 

II     GOLD 15 

III     THE  FIRST  TOUCH 21 

IV  MURCHISON  COMES  TO  HEEL    ...     27 

V     PURSUIT >:     >;     .     34 

VI     CONVINCED  AT  LAST 44 

VII  JOHN  STORM'S  DEMAND      .      .             .53 

VIII  CLASHING  WILLS     ......      61 

IX     WAR js.  'i     >.     69 

X     BELSHAZZAR'S  FEAST 80 

XI  THE  HANDWRITING  ON  THE  WALL       .      88 

XII  THE  VOICE  OF  THE  BLIGHT     .      ...      .      96 

XIII  THE  SEVEN  CONSIDER  .....    104 

XIV     THE  TRIUMVIRATE Ill 

XV     THE  ULTIMATUM 119 

XVI     THE  DEATH  PACT .129 

XVII     PANIC .      .    136 

XVIII  THROUGH  THE  MAELSTROM     .      .      .   143 

XIX  A  THUG  AND  A  NOBLEMAN       .      .      .   154 

XX     TRAPPED >:     >:     .    168 

XXI  SUICIDE  BY  PROXY  .      .      .      .     >      .   174 

XXII  Is  THIS  DEATH?     .      .      .      .      .      .   183 

XXIII  To  WORK  AGAIN     ......   187 

XXIV  THE  DEN     ........    196 

XXV  THE  LAST  DEMAND                                .   208 


CONTENTS 


CHAPTER 

PACE 

XXVI 

STORM'S  RADIOJECTOE  .... 

.   220 

XXVII 

THE  FINAL  DAYS  OF  RESPITE 

.   235 

XXVIII 

NIGHT  IN  THE  STRICKEN  CITY  .      . 

.   245 

XXIX 

THE  COMING  OF  BRAUNSCHWEIG  . 

.   255 

XXX 

THE  GREAT  JEW'S  OFFER  . 

.   260 

XXXI 

THE  GREAT  SPECULATION 

.   271 

XXXII 

THE  ATTACK  ON  WASHINGTON 

.   286 

XXXIII 

THE  FLAYING  OF  THE  WOLVES 

.   294 

XXXIV 

BRAUNSCHWEIG'S  COUNTERPLAY     . 

.   307 

XXXV 

THE  GOLD  RETURNS     .... 

,   317 

XXXVI 

THE  MOLTEN  FLOOD    .      .      . 

.   332 

XXXVII 

SUNSHINE  UPON  THE  HEIGHTS 

.   340 

EPILOGUE     

.   347 

ILLUSTRATIONS 

Storm  Glanced  Behind  Him  at  His  Shadow 

on  the  Plain,  White-plastered  Wall     .     Frontispiece 

At  the  First  Turn,  They  Passed  a  Tall, 
Ulster  Clad  Figure.  "I  Thought  as 
Much,"  Said  the  Man  to  Himself  .  .  .  Page  36 

"You  Be  Quiet!"  Commanded  Storm     .    .      Page  124 

He  Held  the  Paper  Out  Before  Storm's 

Eyes Page  179 

"Gold !  The  Whole  World's  Gold !"  Roared 

He,  "All  Mine!  All  Mine!" Page  338 


THE  GOLDEN  BLIGHT 

CHAPTER  I 

A    QUESTION    OF    ASHES 

UNDER  the  softly  diffused  glow  of  the  library  lamp, 
shaded  with  priceless  glass  dug  from  the  ruins  of 
Heliopolis — glass  rendered  opalescent  by  three  thou 
sand  years  of  burial  in  the  Egyptian  sands — the  last 
sheet  of  John  Storm's  weekly  report  fluttered  to  rest 
upon  the  table.  Storm  leaned  back  and  looked  old 
Murchison  full  in  the  face. 

"That's  all,  so  far,"  the  scientist  concluded,  and  for 
a  moment  drew  with  unspeakable  satisfaction  at  the 
moist  black  cigar  that  Murchison  had  handed  him  at 
the  beginning  of  the  conference. 

"Of  course  at  this  stage  of  the  game  there's  no  tell 
ing  what  the  next  reaction  may  or  may  not  produce. 
But  for  the  present,  so  far  as  I  can  report  this  evening, 
that's  all." 

Murchison  sat  silent,  thinking  a  bit  before  comment 
ing. 

His  white,  rather  blunt  fingers,  on  which  he  wore  only 
a  single  plain  ring  of  massive  Roman  gold,  nervously 
tapped  the  arm  of  the  huge  morris  chair  that  held  his 
small,  lean  figure. 

"H-m!"  he  grunted. 

In  the  fireplace  of  Pentelican  marble  a  log  snapped 

9 


10  THE  GOLDEN  BLIGHT 

briskly,  throwing  a  brand  out  on  to  the  tiles.  The  bil 
lionaire  kicked  it  back  into  the  ashes. 

"Nothing  definite,  then?"  queried  he  sharply.  "No 
tangible  specimen  of  nitrogen  to  show  me,  extracted 
by  your  electrical  process,  from  ordinary  atmospheric 
air?" 

Storm  shook  his  head. 

"Nothing — yet,"  he  answered. 

Murchison  took  off  his  gold-rimmed  glasses,  breathed 
on  the  lenses,  and  polished  them  with  his  handkerchief 
before  replying. 

Storm  knew  the  symptom  of  annoyance  well,  and 
smiled  a  trifle  to  himself.  But  Murchison's  expression, 
as  he  sat  there  blinking,  was  far  from  humorous. 

All  at  once  the  financier  set  the  glasses  back  on  his 
thin-bridged  nose  and  directed  a  keen  blue  glance  at 
the  physicist. 

"See  here,  Storm,"  said  he,  the  natural  suavity  of 
his  southern  accent  now  hardened  with  irritation;  "see 
here,  this  won't  do.  Won't  do  at  all!  When  I  hired 
you  to  carry  on  this  line  of  research,  I  expected  results. 
Results,  inside  of  a  month  at  the  outside.  Now,  you've 
been  working  at  the  job  since  October  9,  and  the  total 
net  product  so  far  is  nil.  And  you've  cost  me,  all  told, 
more  than  six  thousand  dollars.  It  won't  do,  I  tell 
you!  Things  can't  go  on  this  way!" 

"That's  up  to  you,"  Storm  retorted,  piqued.  "I'm 
not  magic,  or  anything  of  that  sort.  If  you  think 
there's  another  man  in  the  country  any  better  equipped 
than  I  am,  you're  at  liberty  to  get  him.  The  con 
tract's  in  my  pocket  now.  Say  so,  and  it  goes  into  the 
fire.  Lots  of  other  work  on  hand,  you  know." 


A  QUESTION  OF  ASHES          11 

Murchison  shifted  a  bit  uneasily  in  his  chair. 

"H-m !  I  don't  know  that  matters  have  reached  that 
point — yet,"  answered  he.  "But,  now,  look  at  this 
thing  yourself;  more  than  two  months'  work  and  no 
concrete  results !  I  expected  you  would  have  enough 
nitrogen  to  fertilize  the  whole  of  Texas  before  now,  to 
judge  from  your  prospectus!" 

"I  know.  It  did  look  that  way.  But  Science  won't 
always  go  where  you  try  to  drive  her.  She  insists  on 
leading.  Men  can  only  follow,  and  take  what  she 
offers." 

Murchison  snorted. 

"Science!"  he  gibed.  "If  I  were  a  scientist,  instead 
of  a  financier,  I  warrant  you  she  would  go !" 

He  smote  the  arm  of  his  chair. 

"I'd  make  her,  just  as  I've  made  the  money  world 
and  everything  else  I've  ever  touched.  But  you — all 
theory,  all  vague  speculation.  Six  thousand  dollars 
laid  out,  and  the  best  you  can  report  is  that  if  I  keep 
you  at  work  another  month,  maybe  three  months, 
maybe  a  year,  you  may  possibly  get  on  the  track  of 
a  commercially  feasible  process  for  extracting  mar 
ketable  nitrogen  fertilizer  from  air!  The  devil  you 
say! 

"No,  experimental  science  may  be  all  well  enough  in 
its  way,  but,  hang  it,  give  me  practical  methods  every 
time.  See  here,  now.  If  I'd  employed  Griswold  from 
the  beginning,  a  natural-phosphate  expert,  and  given 
him  the  same  time  and  money,  and  turned  him  loose  on 
my  properties  in  the  South,  or  sent  him  out  to  some  of 
the  guano  islands  of  Chile,  or  done  anything  along 
those  lines,  he'd  have  had  results  by  now — big  results ! 


12  THE  GOLDEN  BLIGHT 

While  you — all  you've  got  to   show  is  just — those!" 

He  nodded  curtly  at  the  handwritten  papers  lying 
on  the  antique  Chinese  table,  and  for  a  moment  smoked 
in  agitated  silence.  The  long,  white  ash  of  his  cigar, 
too  heavy,  dropped  on  to  his  waistcoat.  Annoyed,  he 
brushed  it  off. 

Storm  masked  a  smile  behind  his  hand,  his  clean- 
shaved  face  betraying  lines  of  humor  that  even  his 
earnestness  and  his  thirty-six  years  had  not  yet  dulled. 
His  eyes  brightened  with  a  new  light. 

"These  cigars,"  said  he  quite  slowly,  "are  miracles." 

He  inspected  his  own. 

"I  thought,"  he  continued,  "I  knew  about  everything 
going,  in  the  cigar  line,  but  I  confess  this  brand  has  got 
me  guessing.  Do  you  mind  my  asking  where  it  can  be 
bought?" 

"Bought?"  snapped  Murchison  testily.  "Don't  talk 
rubbish!  It  can't  be  bought;  it  isn't  for  sale.  Why 
do  you  think  it  can  be  bought?  Can  that  'Madonna 
of  the  Book,'  over  the  mantel  there,  be  bought?  Is  my 
Guttman  old-German  gold  dining-service  for  sale?  Do 
people  inquire  in  shops  for  Gragonard  panels?  Art 
such  as  I  specialize  in  isn't  a  common,  market  com 
modity  ! 

"Neither  are  these  cigars,"  he  continued,  a  little 
mollified.  "On  my  estate  at  Patanay,  on  the  southern 
Vuelta  Abajo  of  Mindanao,  lies  a  certain  field.  One 
end  of  it — for  what  reason,  how  should  I  know? — has 
a  certain  soil.  The  place  isn't  bigger  than  the  site 
of  this  house.  A  few  dozen  plants  a  year  grow  there; 
no  more.  Transplanted,  they  become  ordinary  manila. 
But  there — well,  you  see  the  result." 


A  QUESTION  OF  ASHES  13 

"That's  right,  I  do,"  said  Storm,  nodding.  "It's 
art,  with  a  big  A." 

"Those  cigars,"  continued  Murchison,  for  the  mo 
ment  diverted  by  his  hobby,  "are  made  up  for  me  by 
a  man  named  Luis  Requin.  That's  his  only  job.  He 
ships  me  two  boxes  a  year — just  two.  Each  cigar  is 
wrapped  in  silver  foil  and  sealed  in  a  glass  tube.  The 
tubes  are  packed  in  cotton,  and  the  boxes  sent  by  the 
Nippon  Yusen  Kaisha,  kept  in  the  steamers'  safes,  and 
insured  at  one  thousand  dollars  each.  Not  that  the 
thousand  is  worth  considering — it's  simply  a  means  of 
positively  securing  delivery. 

"Price?  There's  no  possible  price  assignable  to 
these  weeds.  So  far  as  I  know  only  four  boxes  exist 
in  the  world  to-day.  Two  are  en  route  from  Min 
danao.  One,  badly  depleted,  is  in  my  humidor  com 
partment  in  my  house-safe.  The  other — " 

"Yes?"  interrupted  Storm,  with  more  real  feeling 
than  he  had  so  far  shown  that  evening. 

"Is  in  the  possession  of  Andrew  Wainwright.  You 
know  him — the  Copper  Czar  they  call  him?  My  best 
friend,  in  spite  of  the  fact  that  we  fight  like  the  devil. 
He -keeps  them  in  his  office,  in  a  special  vault  built  into 
the  wall.  So  you  see — " 

"Yes,  I  see,"  answered  the  physicist,  a  trifle  gloomily. 
Then  he  grew  very  thoughtful,  smoked  a  moment  in 
silence,  and  inspected  the  cigar  ash. 

"Art,"  he  said  again  at  length,  "with  a  big  A.  Not 
for  ordinary  mortals.  By  the  way,  Mr.  Murchison, 
did  you  ever  make  a  study  of  ash?  Interesting  ma 
terial,  I  assure  you.  Very.  Much  may  be  learned 
from  ash." 


14  THE  GOLDEN  BLIGHT 

Murchison  looked  at  him  a  trifle  curiously. 

"Ash?  Hang  it,  no!  What  should  I  want  to  know 
about  ash?  I'm  dealing  with  the  realities  of  life,  the 
active  principles — with  things  that  are,  not  things  that 
have  been!  Ash?  Humph!" 

Storm  shot  a  quick  glance  at  the  billionaire. 

"There  may  be  more  in  ash,"  said  he,  speaking  care 
fully,  "far  more  than  you  suspect.  Perhaps  before 
very  long,  maybe  even  before  you  go  to  bed  this  night, 
you  may  know  more  about  ash  than  you  do  now !" 

And  with  a  quick  gesture  he  tossed  off  the  ash  of  his 
own  cigar  into  the  fireplace. 


CHAPTER  II 

GOLD 

MUECHISON  looked  puzzled  for  an  instant,  but 
quickly  masked  his  face  with  its  usual  dry  and  cynical 
aplomb. 

"That  may  all  very  well  be,"  he  answered,  "but  it's 
entirely  beside  the  point.  Let's  keep  to  facts.  Facts ! 
My  time's  worth  eight  thousand  dollars  an  hour,  at  the 
very  moderate  estimate  of  six  per  cent,  on  my  invested 
capital.  That's  something  like  a  hundred  and  thirty- 
five  dollars  a  minute.  Every  time  that  Marfel  clock 
up  there  ticks  off  a  second,  it  means  over  two  dollars. 
So,  you  see,  we  ought  to  stick  to  business.  What?" 

"It  certainly  looks  that  way,"  answered  Storm. 
"Well,  I've  reported  all  I  know,  so  far." 

"Which  is,  summed  up,  absolutely  nothing!  Noth 
ing  at  all,  from  a  dollars-and-cents'  standpoint." 

"You  mean  that  your  whole  object  in  this  matter 
is  the  accumulation  of  more  wealth?" 

"What?"  gasped  Murchison. 

"That  all  you're  having  me  go  into  this  research  for 
is  the  mere  piling  up  of  still  more  dollars?  No  idea  of 
benefiting  mankind,  adding  to  the  world's  available 
nitrogen  and  food  supply;  no — " 

"Don't  forget  yourself,  Storm !" 

"No  humanitarian  impulse  whatever?  Just  more 

15 


16  THE  GOLDEN  BLIGHT 

gold,  gold,  gold — when  you're  already  choked,  and 
glutted,  and  swamped  in  gold?" 

The  billionaire  stared  at  Storm  as  though  the 
younger  man  had  gone  quite  mad. 

"There !  That's  quite  enough.  More  than  enough !" 
snapped  he. 

"No,  I  don't  think  it  is,"  retorted  Storm,  leaning 
forward  in  his  chair.  "Not  quite.  Because,  you  see, 
the  whole  basis  of  my  work  is  involved.  You're  think 
ing  of  one  thing,  I'm  considering  another.  Science  is 
my  aim — that,  and  certain  ideas  I  have  Jbout  a  few 
matters  I  won't  bother  you  with  just  now.  Your  ob 
ject  is  more  gold.  Am  I  right,  or  am  I  wrong?" 

"Confound  your  impertinence !"  cried  Murchison, 
half  starting  up. 

"Sit  down,  please,"  said  the  physicist.  "What  I'm 
going  to  say  now  will  interest  you.  It  really  will. 
No,  no,  don't  interrupt  me — not  just  yet.  You  like 
my  subject — gold.  Before  I  get  through  to-night  I 
think  you'll  have  some  new  ideas  about  it. 

"Now,  gold — why  do  you  love  it?  Why  do  men  toil, 
and  fight,  and  even  kill  for  it?  That's  plain  enough; 
because  it's  the  universal  standard  of  value,  the  never- 
failing  medium  of  exchange.  It  means  ease,  luxury, 
power.  From  world's  end  to  world's  end,  all  things 
yield  to  gold.  At  its  touch  every  door  swings  open 
wide.  The  depths,  the  heights,  all  yield  their  tribute 
to  it.  Man's  strength  and  woman's  beauty  and  virtue 
come  beneath  its  yoke.  'Saint-seducing  gold'  indeed! 
And  so  the  world  adores  it. 

"It  buys  everything.  Everything!  Even  Science 
herself  sometimes  plays  the  jade  for  gold.  Universities 


GOLD  17 

and  pulpits  teach  only  what  gold  approves;  and  the 
professor  or  the  clergyman  who  dares  stand  up  and 
tell  the  truth  about  it,  gets  the  sack — you  know  that! 
The  waste  places  of  the  earth,  the  unknown  wilds,  are 
ransacked  and  made  to  give  up  their  treasures,  all  for 
gold!  If  you  want  a  railroad,  Murchison,  you  offer 
gold.  Bibelots,  more  gold.  An  ambassadorship,  gov 
ernorship,  senatorial  toga,  still  more  gold ! 

"Gold  writes  the  laws,  and  it  enforces  them.  Gold 
dictates  policies  of  state  and  international  law,  grave 
speeches  and  solemn  functions,  and  the  marionette  ac 
tivities  of  politicians  and  diplomats.  It  makes  and  un 
makes  dynasties.  It  declares  peace  and  war.  At  last 
analysis,  gold  names  the  very  President  of  these  United 
States,  and  all  those  in  authority,  right  up  to  the 
Supreme  Bench  itself.  Gold  is  King! 

"The  Franz  Hals,  over  there,  these  Kazak  rugs  here, 
your  original  Gutenberg  Bible,  your  King  Charles 
prayer-book,  your  fifteen  Caxtons,  your  Black  Book 
of  St.  John,  your  Elzevirs  you  boast  of — gold! 
That  Mazarin  tapestry,  hanging  on  the  wall,  means 
gold!  That  Strozzi  bronze,  gold!"  Storm  pointed  a 
long,  big-knuckled  finger,  as  though  stabbing  at  the 
vase.  "Your —  But  no  matter;  why  name  the  treas 
ures  even  here,  alone? 

"Each  is  a  symbol  of  gold;  of  mankind  wrung  and 
tortured  with  toil,  and  poverty,  and  blood,  and  sweat; 
of  exploitation,  and  of  war!  They  all  mean  your 
power  over  Man,  the  scourge-marks  of  your  whip  upon 
the  human  race.  As  such,  you  love  them.  For  this 
main  reason  you  love  gold !" 

Storm  paused.     Murchison,  purple  and  speechless, 


18  THE  GOLDEN  BLIGHT 

sat  staring  at  him.  The  billionaire's  glasses  had  fallen 
from  his  nose  and  now  dangled  at  the  end  of  their  silken 
cord.  His  hands  twitched  convulsively.  His  face  had 
wrinkled  into  a  strange,  malicious  mask ;  under  his  eyes 
the  little,  fleshy  bags  that  spoke  of  age  became  accentu 
ated.  He  tried  to  speak,  but  could  not. 

The  physicist  regarded  him  a  moment.  Through 
Storm's  mind  passed  a  memory  or  two  regarding  this 
man's  past;  his  bitter  hate  of  Labor;  his  brazen  sub 
sidizing  of  press,  and  university  and  church;  the  in 
dustrial  battles  he  had  fought — memories  of  barricades 
and  gunmen,  of  prostituted  courts  of  justice;  the 
maimed  and  slaughtered  multitudes  in  his  mills  and 
mines  and  railways;  wars  waged,  even,  at  his  secret 
bidding;  always  and  everywhere  a  ruthless  beating- 
down  of  human  life,  that  he  might  rise  to  power.  Of 
all  these  things  and  others  Storm  thought ;  and  his  face 
grew  hard  as  flint. 

"Gold!"  spat  he.  "Now,  Murchison,  I'm  going  to 
show  you  what  it  is  you  have  been  worshiping  all  your 
life;  what  you  worship  now.  What  you  have  made 
yourself  a  human  harpy  for — a  vampire,  fattening 
on  the  life-blood  of  the  race!  You  put  some  gold  be 
fore  me,  on  that  table  there,  and  watch — that's  all!" 

For  a  minute  the  billionaire  tried  to  brave  his  eyes, 
but  he  could  not.  He  fumbled  with  his  glasses. 

"What — what  do  you  mean?"  stammered  he. 

"Mean?  I  mean  just  what  I  say!  Your  gold's  a 
rotten  sham,  Murchison.  I'm  going  to  prove  it  to 
you.  I,  with  a  little  of  the  Science  you  despise,  am 
going  to  bring  you  fawning  to  my  feet.  Gold?  Why, 
of  all  the  monstrous  jokes,  since  time  began,  gold  is  the 


GOLD  19 

most  monumental!  The  16th  Century  Imperial  gold 
plate  you  mean  to  use  at  your  big  banquet,  next  week, 
is  all  a  mockery  and  a  delusion.  Your  Tyrian  jugs, 
your  ancient  Greek  gold  wine-cups,  all  your  golden 
bibelots  and  coins,  your  specie  hoard  itself,  haven't 
the  utility-value  of  pewter — not  in  the  light  of  my 
knowledge.  Come,  put  some  gold  here  on  the  table. 
Let  me  prove  it !" 

"You're  insane !" 

"Am  I?  That  remains  to  be  seen.  Show  me  some 
gold,  that's  all.  Then—" 

"But — but  gold  is  the  one  eternal,  indestructible, 
basic  factor  in  human  life !  Gold,  the  element — " 

"Element?  You're  joking  now.  Come,  come;  set 
out  some  gold,  under  the  light  here  1" 

He  pointed  at  the  table. 

"Surely  you've  got  a  little  gold  you're  willing  to 
risk?  All  for  the  sake  of  education?" 

Murchison,  his  face  livid  with  rage  and  secret  appre 
hension,  reached  out  and  pressed  an  ivory  button  set 
into  the  side  of  the  table. 

Came  a  pause.  From  beyond  the  stiff,  gold-em 
broidered  portiere  sounded  a  faint  and  vibrant  twang- 
ling  of  harp-strings,  playing  Handel's  "Largo."  But 
even  at  sound  of  his  daughter's  music  the  grim  old 
billionaire's  face  did  not  soften.  His  gold!  Menaced? 
What?  Could  it  be? 

The  portiere  was  drawn  to  one  side.  In  the  door 
way  stood  an  elderly  Japanese,  clad  in  a  long  blue 
kimono,  noiselessly  shod  in  felt  tabi.  He  joined  his 
palms  and  bowed,  and  sibilantly  inquired : 

"You  ring,  sar?" 


20  THE  GOLDEN  BLIGHT 

"Ah,  Jinyo!"  Murchison  exclaimed,  starting. 
"Come  here!" 

"Yes,  sar." 

He  approached  the  table.  His  slitlike  eyes  noted 
the  master's  agitation,  then  for  a  fraction  of  an  in 
stant  gleamed  as  they  turned  toward  Storm.  But  they 
became  at  once  impassive  again. 

"Up-stairs  in  my  room,  in  the  right-hand  corner  of 
my  dressing-table,  there's  a  small  steel  box.  Bring  it. 
Understand?" 

"Yes,  sar.  Thank  you,  sar,"  murmured  Jinyo. 
Then  he  was  gone. 

Three  minutes,  and  the  box  lay  on  the  mottled  green 
stone  top  of  the  table.  Jinyo  salaamed  again,  and 
withdrew. 

With  a  key  which  he  took  from  his  pocket  Murchison 
opened  the  box.  He  tipped  it  over  and  shook  out  six 
heavy  little  rolls,  neatly  wrapped  in  paper.  Each  roll 
was  circled  with  a  band,  marked  "$500.00." 

"Now,"  said  he,  in  a  husky  voice,  "now,  here  is  gold ! 
Well?" 


CHAPTER  III 

THE    FIRST    TOUCH 

STORM  made  no  answer,  but  picked  up  one  of  the 
rolls,  stripped  off  the  band  and  the  paper,  and  slewed 
out  the  five-and-twenty  double-eagles  it  contained,  upon 
the  stone. 

Fresh-minted,  bright,  beautiful,  the  coins  never  yet 
had  circulated.  Storm  rang  one  on  the  table-top,  ex 
amined  the  milling,  and  weighed  the  coin  in  his  hand. 

"This,"  said  he,  smiling,  "you  admit  to  be  the  real 
thing,  eh?" 

"In  a  small  way,  yes.  Just  a  few  trifles,  these  coins. 
Enough  to  insure  three  boxes  of  those  Mindanao  Spe 
cials,  that's  all — but  still  gold.  Yes,  gold.  I  had 
them  sent  up  from  the  office  this  afternoon  for  little 
Christmas  gifts  to  my  people  here  in  the  house  and 
elsewhere — butlers,  chauffeurs,  maids,  servants,  and  all 
that." 

He  spoke  more  calmly  now,  realizing  perhaps  that 
self-mastery  was  essential  in  face  of  this  unknown  peril. 
But  in  his  spare-fleshed  throat  the  throbbing  of  his 
pulse  was  ninety  to  the  minute;  and  Storm,  keen-eyed, 
noted  it  and  smiled. 

"Gold !"  said  he.  "Here  it  is,  the  real  metal,  the  im 
mutable  element !  Atomic  weight,  187 ;  specific  gravity, 

17.16;  standard  coin  gold,  21.6  K  fine.     Melts  only  at 

21 


22  THE  GOLDEN  BLIGHT 

1075°,  and  can  be  vaporized  only  by  the  electric  furnace 
or  the  oxyhydrogen  blow-pipe.  Make  sure,  now,  that 
I  haven't  got  either  apparatus  on  my  person ;  nor  any 
selenic  acid,  either — the  only  acid  which  dissolves  it; 
nor  any  aqua  regia  to  transform  it  into  the  soluble 
trichlorid  form." 

Speaking,  he  manipulated  the  coin,  rubbing  it,  turn 
ing  it,  stroking  it  with  his  strong  fingers. 

"Gold!  Basis  of  all  civilization,  trade,  life,  every 
thing,  is  it  not?  Gold,  the  war-maker!  The  world- 
master  !  Gold,  that  turns  the  wheels  of  industry,  moves 
armies,  builds  cities,  dictates  to  kings  and  emperors, 
creates,  rules,  annihilates,  glorifies!  That  bends  men 
and  women  to  its  will,  whitens  the  seas  with  the  sails  and 
blackens  them  with  the  smoke  of  commerce,  creates 
paradise  in  the  midst  of  Hell,  wrecks  millions,  crushes 
human  rights  and  smears  them  out  in  blood,  is  lusted 
for,  fought  for,  lost  and  won  and  paid  for  in  man's  life 
and  woman's  chastity,  in  sweat  and  tears,  in  ruin,  in 
damnation !  Gold !" 

He  ceased,  and  a  little  silence  fell  there  in  the 
library.  The  clock  on  the  mantel  doled  out  a  single 
silvery  note.  Storm  glanced  up  at  it. 

"Half  past  nine,"  said  he.  "Before  ten  o'clock,  sir, 
so  far  as  this  gold  here  is  concerned,  you'll  be  three 
thousand  dollars  poorer.  I  warn  you  now.  This  is  no 
trifling,  no  empty  bombast.  I'm  going  to  do  just  what 
I  tell  you ;  I'm  going  to  take  this  gold  away  from  you. 
The  lesson  will  be  valuable.  Are  you  satisfied  with 
the  price?  It's  only  a  trifle,  you  know,  as  you  yourself 
said  five  minutes  back.  I  have  carte  blanche,  then?" 

"Go  ahead— fool!" 


,THE  FIRST  TOUCH  23 

Murchison's  voice  was  almost  inaudible.  In  spite 
of  his  grip  on  the  chair-arms,  his  hands  were  shaking 
with,  a  nervous  chill.  His  extinct  cigar,  its  priceless- 
ness  forgotten  now,  hung  loosely  from  his  lips. 

Storm  stood  up.  He  glanced  at  Murchison,  then 
looked  down  fixedly  at  the  gold  coins.  One  by  one  he 
passed  them  through  his  fingers,  then  dropped  them, 
clinking,  on  the  table-top  beneath  the  glowing  iridescent 
light. 

Then  all  at  once  a  strange  thing  happened. 

For  now,  across  the  outspread  double-eagles,  a  spat 
tering  dulness  began  to  appear,  leprous  and  gray  as 
though  drops  of  mercury  had  been  sprinkled  over  them. 
Every  blotch  was  rounded  at  one  side,  pointed  at  the 
other,  drawn  out  into  a  long  tail;  and  all  these  tails 
pointed  the  same  way — to  southeastward,  in  the  direc 
tion  of  New  York. 

Tiny  the  blotches  were  at  first.  But,  even  as  Mur 
chison,  with  a  choking  oath,  started  forward,  glaring 
at  the  gold,  they  grew,  enlarged,  swiftly  became  con 
fluent  as  they  impinged,  even  like  beads  of  quicksilver. 
Now  two  of  the  coins  were  all  gray — now  five  of  them — 
now  all.  Then,  under  the  billionaire's  very  eyes,  they 
dulled  to  a  dirty  white. 

Murchison  cried  out.  Then  he  clutched  forward  at 
his  beloved  gold. 

"That's  right!  Touch  one!"  commanded  Storm. 
"What's  it  worth  now?" 

Smitten  to  silence,  the  financier  recoiled.  "Merciful 
Heaven!"  stammered  he. 

Under  his  scrabbling  grasp  every  coin  he  had  set  his 
hand  to  suddenly  crumbled  into  a  white,  crystalline  ash. 


24  THE  GOLDEN  BLIGHT 

"Look  out,  there!"  ejaculated  Storm.  "Your  ring! 
What's  the  matter  with  your  ring?  You're  losing  it!" 

Murchison's  hand  jerked  up  as  though  a  viper  had 
sunk  its  fangs  into  the  flesh.  His  ring,  already  white, 
flaked  off  in  whitish  powder. 

"Your  picture-frames  need  attention,  it  seems  to 
me,"  smiled  the  physicist,  gesturing.  "See  there — and 
there?  Poor  work!  Rotten  bad!" 

Murchison  stared  blankly  at  the  frame  of  the  Ma 
donna  over  the  mantel.  The  gold-leaf,  swept  with  this 
horrible  Blight,  even  as  he  looked  was  growing  dull  and 
gray  and  cold,  losing  its  beauty,  crumbling  off.  On  the 
polished  slab  beneath  it  a  scatter  of  the  crystalline 
powder  was  dropping  in  little  scales  and  specks. 

"Look  out  for  your  cravat-pin!"  warned  Storm. 
"You'll  lose  it  if  you  don't !"  Patronizingly  he  smiled. 

The  billionaire,  dazed,  brought  his  hand  falteringly 
to  his  tie.  Palsied,  his  fingers  all  but  refused  to  obey 
his  will.  But  when  he  touched  his  tie  he  started  as  with 
a  galvanic  shock. 

"Where— what?"  he  stammered.  "What— have  you 
—done?" 

His  face  grew  suddenly  pale  as  paper.  The  pin  was 
gone! 

All  that  remained  was  a  pinch  of  whitish  powder  scat 
tered  over  his  cravat  and  down  his  clothing. 

The  big  ruby  that  had  been  set  in  the  claws  of  gold 
had  vanished. 

"The  stone  has  probably  rolled  down  inside  your  vest 
somewhere,"  commented  Storm  dryly.  "You'll  find  it 
all  right  enough  when  you  go  to  bed.  If  you  don't, 
have  Jinyo  look  for  it  on  the  rug." 


THE  FIRST  TOUCH  25 

"You  devil!"  shouted  Murchison,  lurching  forward 
at  Storm. 

But  the  physicist  only  stepped  back,  still  smiling. 

"I  advise  you  not  to  talk  so  loud,"  suggested  he. 
"Some  of  your  people  here  might  come  in  to  see  what's 
the  matter.  And  if  any  news  of  this  should  get  out,  for 
the  present,  it  might  prove  embarrassing — very.  Your 
situation,  just  at  present,  is  one  where  violence,  bluster 
and  threats  won't  avail  you  in  the  least.  You  can't 
handle  me  as  you've  handled  thousands  of  others.  For 
once,  I'm  master — as  you'll  soon  see.  Now,  really,  I 
must  be  going." 

Never  had  be  spoken  more  calmly  in  his  life. 

"After  I'm  gone,  take  a  look  at  the  rest  of  your  coins 
in  the  rolls  there.  They  may  interest  you.  Possibly 
they  may  even  change  your  ideas  of  value  a  little,  who 
knows  ? 

"I'll  go  on  with  the  research  work,  of  course.  One 
week  from  to-night  I'll  make  my  usual  report,  unless 
something  more  important  interferes.  Meantime,  I 
shall  be  busy — extremely  busy.  Good  night." 

He  gave  Murchison  one  long  look,  then  turned  on  his 
heel  and — never  even  so  much  as  glancing  back — strode 
out  of  the  room. 

The  billionaire,  absolutely  stunned,  sat  blinking.  He 
had  sunk  back  into  the  big  chair,  and  now,  chin  on 
breast,  sat  gaping  stupidly  at  the  strange  little  piles 
of  dust  on  the  table. 

Then,  blinking,  gasping,  acting  on  a  pure  reflex  of 
habit,  he  fumbled  in  his  pocket  for  his  gold  cigar-case. 
He  found  none.  Instead,  two  of  those  wondrous  cigars 
came  up  loose  in  his  shaking  fingers — two  cigars  pow- 


26  THE  GOLDEN  BLIGHT 

dered  with  a  fine,  metallic  ash.  Murchison  cried  out 
in  sheer  fright.  He  pawed  desperately  at  his  pocket. 
Out  he  snatched  another  cigar,  which  broke  to  frag 
ments  in  his  clutch. 

With  an  oath,  he  flung  these  fragments  on  to  the  rug 
and  ripped  his  pocket  inside  out.  Of  the  costly  cigar- 
case  no  sign  remained  save  a  pinch  or  two  of  dust  and 
some  small  diamonds  which  had  been  set  in  his  engraved 
monogram. 

"Oh!"  wheezed  the  billionaire.  He  flung  himself 
upon  one  of  the  untouched  coin-rolls  and  tried  to  rip 
it  open.  Under  the  pressure  of  his  fingers  it  collapsed 
to  an  empty  twist  of  paper  circled  with  the  mocking 
inscription:  "$500.00." 

"Merciful  God !"  he  gulped,  and  tore  the  paper. 

Out  sifted  a  fine  stream  of  that  same  terrifying  ash. 

Murchison  swept  all  the  empty  papers  on  to  the  floor, 
uttered  a  strange  laugh,  and  made  two  wavering  steps 
toward  the  door.  Then  he  swayed,  flung  up  his  hands, 
and — as  though  struck  down  by  a  bullet — plunged  full 
length  to  the  floor. 


CHAPTER  IV 

MUECHISON    COMES    TO    HEEL 

CONFUSION  indescribable  burst  through  the  house 
hold  of  the  billionaire  when,  running  swiftly  and  noise 
lessly  in  at  the  sound  of  the  fall,  Jinyo  found  his 
master  lying  senseless  on  the  great  Burmah  tiger-skin 
between  the  table  and  the  door.  Only  a  moment  later 
came  Mrs.  Murchison  and  Hildegarde  from  the  music- 
room,  and  behind  them,  scared  and  silent  and  fright 
ened  out  of  their  wits,  two  or  three  maids,  a  butler,  and 
the  Belgian  chef. 

Hildegarde  first  recovered  common  sense. 

"Here,  Jinyo  1"  she  commanded,  while  the  mother 
knelt  hysterically  and  with  futile  exhortations  tried 
to  arouse  her  husband. 

"Now,  mother,  do  be  quiet!"  Hildegarde  insisted. 
"It's  only  a  fainting-fit.  No,  no,  it's  not  apoplexy,  I 
tell  you.  Pierre,  you  take  his  shoulders.  Jinyo,  you 
and  Edwards  take  hold,  so — now,  then — all  right." 

Servants  and  daughter  cooperating,  they  carried  him 
to  the  great  hall,  spacious  and  wonderfully  beautiful, 
then  past  the  Parian  marble  fountain  and  so  to  the  elec 
tric  elevator. 

Presently  Van  Home  Murchison  lay  between  his 
monogrammed  sheets  in  his  big,  four-posted  Louis- 
Seize  bed,  while  down-stairs  the  telephone  was  kept  hot 

27 


28  THE  GOLDEN  BLIGHT 

trying  to  locate  Dr.  Harlan  Grant  in  the  village. 
But  Grant  was  precisely  the  one  man  Murchison 
positively  refused  to  see.  When,  after  a  few  minutes, 
he  came  glimmering  back  to  his  senses,  and  his  ear 
caught  the  echo  of  Grant's  name,  he  struggled  up  in 
bed.  Gaunt  and  dishevelled,  wild-eyed,  vehement  in 
spite  of  all  his  weakness  and  distress,  he  cried  in  an 
angry  voice: 

"Doctor?     No,  no!     No  doctor!     Won't  have  him 
: — positively  won't !     Understand?" 
"But,  father—" 

"No,  no,  it's  nothing — nothing  at  all,  I  tell  you! 
Just  clear  this  infernal  pack  out  of  here,  won't  you? 
Mother,  you  have  the  windows  thrown  open.  Give  me 
air !  Air !  I'll  be  all  right—" 

"We've  sent  for  Grant  already,  and — " 
"What?"  Sudden  rage  revived  the  billionaire. 
"Sent  for  him,  have  you?  I  won't  have  him,  won't  see 
him,  I  tell  you!  Get  that?  Hang  it,  can't  a  man 
smoke  too  much  and  get  dizzy  and  drop  over  without 
turning  the  world  upside  down?  If  this  gets  out,  if 
the  Street  gets  wind  of  it — " 

"But,  listen,  father!"  And  Hildegarde,  grasping 
old  Murchison's  hand,  tried  to  calm  him. 

Mrs.  Murchison,  distraught,  gave  contradicting 
orders  to  the  frightened  serving-folk.  Up  went  the  big 
windows;  the  keen  December  breeze  surged  in,  bellying 
the  draperies. 

Murchison,  gasping  for  air,  pushed  his  daughter 
away  with  imperative  decision. 

"No,  I  tell  you!"  he  stormed.  "I  won't  see  him. 
When  he  comes  send  him  back  P.  D.  Q.  And  if  he,  or 


MURCHISON  COMES  TO  HEEL      29 

anybody,  breathes  a  word  about  this,  there'll  be  some 
scalping.  Do  you  realize  what  this  would  do  to  the 
market  if  it  became  known?  Now,  clear  out — all  of 
you!  I  reckon  I'm  boss  here!  Out,  I  say!  No,  no, 
mother,  you  can't  stay.  No,  Hilda — out  you  go,  too ! 
Nobody  but  Jinyo — just  Jinyo,  that's  all." 

When,  still  protesting,  everybody  had  departed  ex 
cept  the  Japanese,  Murchis,on's  own  private  valet,  the 
financier  scrambled  out  of  bed  with  astonishing  agility, 
and,  though  still  weak  and  shaken,  got  hastily  to  work. 

"Shut  those  windows,  Jinyo!"  he  commanded. 
"Now,  come  here." 

He  gripped  the  wizened  little  man's  arm  with  a 
violence  that  made  the  Jap  stare. 

"Listen!"  The  billionaire's  teeth  were  chattering 
with  excitement  and  cold,  as  he  stood  there  only  half 
dressed  on  the  Kirmanshah  rug,  for  the  temperature 
was  well  down  toward  forty. 

"Go  quickly,  quietly  down  the  back  way.  Go  to  the 
library.  Lock  all  the  windows.  Lock  both  doors  and 
bring  me  the  keys  at  once.  Understand?  Nobody 
must  go  into  that  room,  nobooVy  at  all.  If  anybody 
does,  your  job's  gone.  Get  that?" 

"Yes,  sar.     I  pick  up  library?     Make  order?" 

"You  pick  up  nothing,  touch  nothing,  see  nothing!" 
commanded  Murchison. 

Well  he  realized  that  he  himself,  personally,  with  his 
own  soft  hands,  must  clean  that  room  and  hide  each 
speck,  each  trace  of  gold-ash. 

"Just  lock  it  up  and  get  those  keys  to  me  inside  of 
three  minutes,  or  I'll  know  why.  Hydku  yuke!" 

Roughly  he  shoved  the  valet  toward  the  door. 


30  THE  GOLDEN  BLIGHT 

"Hurry !  Hurry !  And  put  all  the  lights  out,  there 
— and  don't  say  a  word  to  anybody." 

Hardly  had  the  door  closed  behind  the  Japanese, 
when  Murchison  stumbled  across  the  room  toward  the 
high-backed  chair  of  carved  mahogany,  on  which  his 
clothes  had  been  flung  at  random  in  the  excitement. 

Shaken  and  trembling,  he  began  trying  to  dress  him 
self,  a  task  he  had  not  done  alone  for  many  years. 

"Mad?  Am  I  going  mad?"  he  muttered  as  he 
pawed  in  a  dazed  manner  at  his  clothing.  "This  isn't 
true!  It  can't  be!  Why,  the  thing's  preposterous. 
Worse,  it's  an  infernal  outrage!  Impossible!  But 
he's  smart,  Storm  is — damned  smart,  I'll  grant  that. 
A  clever  devil,  eh?" 

He  tried  to  laugh,  but  dismally  failed. 
"He's  huffy  because  I  threatened  him  with  discharge 
for  not  delivering  the  goods  on  that  nitrate  proposition. 
Trying  to  get  back   at  me,  what?     Well,  I'll  teach 
him!" 

He  took  up  his  garments  and  sought  to  turn  them 
right-side  out,  but  his  hands  shook  so  that  they  dis 
obeyed  his  will.  He  cursed,  and  ripped  at  them. 

"Clever  as  Hell!"  he  exclaimed.  "But  there's  some 
catch  to  it,  that's  certain.  Some  smart  scientific  hocus- 
pocus — or  maybe  he  had  me  hypnotized,  staring  so 
steadily  at  those  bright  gold  pieces.  How  can  /  tell? 
All  I  know  is  that  the  thing's  impossible.  It  isn't  so — 
it  can't  be!  But — eh?  If  it  were?  Nonsense! 
Why—" 

Out  from  his  waistcoat-pocket  something  fell — a 
small,  hard,  black  object. 

"H-m!     My   fountain   pen,"    said   Murchison,    and 


MURCHISON  COMES  TO  HEEL      31 

picked  it  up.  With  hardly  a  glance  at  it,  he  was  about 
to  lay  it  on  the  dressing-table  close  at  hand,  when  a 
certain  peculiarity  in  its  appearance  struck  him. 

With  a  strange  feeling  of  impending  disaster,  he 
thrust  it  under  the  light  burning  beside  the  table. 

"What?"  stammered  he. 

Horror  leaped  into  his  eyes.  All  along  his  spine  and 
over  his  scalp  a  crawling,  tightening  sensation  spread. 
Suddenly  he  began  to  shiver  violently.  Long-forgotten 
sensations  such  as  he  had  not  felt  since,  when  a  boy,  he 
had  once  had  to  pass  a  country  graveyard  at  night, 
thrilled  every  nerve. 

"My  God !"  he  whispered  hoarsely. 

At  the  pen  he  stared,  aghast.  On  the  hard-rubber 
barrel,  where  the  elaborately  carved  gold  filigree 
mountings  had  been,  now  there  showed  only  a  spraying 
intaglio  design. 

Of  the  gold  no  slightest  trace  or  vestige  remained. 

He  snatched  off  the  cap.  Terrified,  he  looked  for 
the  gold  pen-point. 

But  that,  too,  had  disappeared.  From  the  cap  a 
tiny  pinch  of  white  metallic  powder  filtered  out  as  he 
held  it  in  his  palsied  fingers. 

With  a  curse,  Murchison  hurled  the  pen  from  him. 
It  cracked  against  the  wall  and  ricochetted  back 
across  the  polished  floor,  leaving  an  ugly  blotch  of  ink 
where  it  had  struck. 

Shaken  with  fright  and  cold  to  the  very  marrow,  the 
billionaire  staggered  back  to  his  bed  and  collapsed. 
Through  all  the  terror  and  confusion  of  his  mind  only 
one  thought  rose  dominant: 

"This  must  not  be  known !     This  must  be  hidden ! 


32  THE  GOLDEN  BLIGHT 

Nobody  must  get  hold  of  it !  Storm  must  be  seen.  He 
must  be  intercepted.  If  the  secret  of  his  power  becomes 
public — I'm  a  ruined  man!" 

He  hid  his  face  in  both  hands,  and  for  a  moment  sat 
quite  motionless. 

There  Jinyo,  presently  returning  with  noiseless 
tread,  found  his  master.  Very  pale  now,  sobered  and 
humbled  was  Murchison. 

"Jinyo?"  said  he  in  an  altered  voice. 

"Yes,  sar?" 

"The  doctor — when  he  comes — " 

"He  maybe  come  now,  pretty  soon." 

"When  he  does,  show  him  up.  I've  changed  my  mind. 
And  say,  pour  me  a  drink  there.  A  stiff  one,  too." 

He  nodded  weakly  toward  the  little  stand  in  the 
corner. 

Jinyo  deftly  manipulated  decanter  and  glass,  and 
brought  Murchison  four  fingers  of  Croix  d'Hins  cog 
nac,  thirty  years  old,  with  a  soda  chaser.  The  billion 
aire,  though  ordinarily  most  moderate,  gulped  the 
brandy  neat,  without  even  winking.  The  chaser  he 
ignored. 

"Library  all  locked  up  tight  now?" 

"Yes,  sar.     All  locked." 

"Nobody's  been  in  there?     Nobody  at  all?" 

"No,  sar.  Just  I  come  now  from  locking  it.  Keys 
here,  sar." 

Murchison  accepted  them  with  a  tremulous  hand. 
He  started  violently  as  a  knocking  sounded  on  the 
door. 

"Father!  Father?"  sounded  Hildegarde's  voice 
through  the  panels.  "We  don't  understand  this  at  all. 


MURCHISON  COMES  TO  HEEL      33 

Mother  says  we  ought  to  be  in  there  with  you,  and — " 

"Will  you  leave  me  alone?"  roared  the  billionaire  in 
a  violent  gust  of  passion. 

And,  already  stimulated  by  the  alcohol,  he  got  up 
unsteadily  from  the  bed  and  began  pacing  the  floor. 
The  Jap,  with  observant  yet  non-committal  eyes, 
watched  him  from  a  respectful  distance. 

"Will  you  go  to  bed  now,  sar?"  queried  he.  "Till 
doctor  comes?" 

"Doctor?  What  doctor?  /  don't  want  any  doctor. 
I'm  as  fit  as  a  fiddle — all  right  every  way.  See  here, 
Jinyo!" 

Coming  over  to  the  valet,  Murchison  glared  down  at 
him. 

"I've  got  another  errand  for  you.     Listen!" 

"I  hear,  sar." 

"Good!  You  go  on  down  to  the  garage.  If  you 
can  get  there  without  being  seen,  so  much  the  better. 
In  any  case,  don't  answer  any  questions.  Got  that?" 

The  billionaire's  voice  was  regaining  something  of  its 
usual  timbre,  its  pitch  of  mastery.  Jinyo  nodded. 

"Have  Thomas  run  out  my  closed  car.  The  closed 
car,  mind.  Out  the  rear  door  on  to  the  Sylvan  Avenue 
driveway.  Tell  him  to  get  everything  ready  for  a  quick 
start,  but  not  to  light  the  lamps.  He  must  wait  right 
there  at  the  wheel  for  further  orders.  And  you  put  a 
fur  coat  into  the  car  for  me." 

"Which  coat,  sar?" 

"The  Persian  lamb.     That's  all  now.     Go !" 


CHAPTER  V 

PURSUIT 

FIVE  minutes  later  Murchison  had  huddled  on  his 
clothes  in  hit-or-miss  fashion,  dropped  a  revolver  from 
his  table-drawer  into  his  coat-pocket,  and — sneaking  in 
his  own  house  like  a  fear-struck  criminal— had  made  his 
way  by  devious  passages  and  stairs  down  to  the  trades 
men's  entrance  at  the  back  of  the  mansion. 

Here  he  paused  a  moment  to  listen.  Nothing.  No 
sound  of  alarm  or  of  suspicion. 

Noiselessly  the  billionaire  opened  the  door  and 
slipped  out  into  the  night. 

A  single  incandescent  was  blurring  the  chill  fog  under 
the  archway  of  the  door,  casting  its  light  out  on  to  the 
thin  and  glistening  snow  that  had  that  evening  fallen. 

Murchison  turned  a  switch  in  the  door-jamb.  The 
light  died.  Then  quickly,  furtively,  he  hurried  in  the 
thick  gloom  toward  the  garage,  reached  it  unnoted, 
stole  around  it,  and  reached  the  driveway  that  com 
municated  with  the  avenue  at  the  rear  of  Edgecliff,  Mur- 
chison's  estate. 

Thomas,  already  holding  the  car  door  open,  was 
waiting  for  his  master  with  the  imperturbable  aplomb 
that  made  him  invaluable.  He  touched  his  cap  as  Mur 
chison  climbed  into  the  limousine. 

"Railroad  station  at  Englewood,  quick !"  commanded 

34 


PURSUIT  35 

Murchison.  "But  run  out  of  the  place  here  as  quietly 
as  you  can.  Light  the  lamps  outside  there  on  the  road.'* 

His  voice  was  strained  and  notably  unsteady. 

"Yes,  sir." 

"Go  down  Englewood  Avenue.  You  know  Mr. 
Storm,  of  course — the  man  you  brought  up  here  last 
week?  All  right.  Keep  close  watch  of  the  road  for 
him.  Most  of  the  way  down  there's  sidewalk  only  on 
one  side.  You  can't  miss  him  if  he  hasn't  reached  the 
village  yet.  It's  highly  important  that  I  see  him. 
Now  you  understand  everything?" 

"I  understand,  sir." 

"Very  well."  And  Murchison  slipped  into  the  huge 
fur  coat  that  Jinyo  had  already  laid  on  the  cushions 
for  him.  "Drive  on!" 

Thomas  closed  the  door  with  discreet  gentleness, 
touched  his  cap,  and  climbed  onto  the  driver's  seat. 
A  moment,  and  with  a  tiger-purr  of  gears,  the  car  was 
slipping  in  the  dark  down  the  long,  winding  drive,  be 
tween  the  oaks  and  elms.  Even  the  grit  of  pebbles 
was  deadened  by  the  snow. 

Almost  noiselessly  the  car  swung  through  the  huge 
stone  gate,  nearly  half  a  mile  from  the  house.  Here 
Thomas  switched  on  the  lights,  and  two  dazzling  shafts 
of  electricity  painted  the  Avenue  that  came  racing 
toward  them  like  a  rushing  ribbon  of  white. 

''Let  her  out  now!"  commanded  Murchison  sharply 
through  the  speaking-tube.  And,  as  if  in  direct  obe 
dience  to  his  word,  the  magnificent  machine  sprang  for 
ward,  spinning  into  a  mad  pace  along  the  far-curved 
road  toward  the  village. 

At  the  first  westward  turn  down  Palisades  Avenue 


36  THE  GOLDEN  BLIGHT 

they  passed  a  tall,  ulster-clad  figure,  sitting  at  ease  on 
a  stone  wall  and  hidden  by  the  trunk  of  a  huge  maple. 

"I  thought  as  much,"  smiled  this  man  to  himself  as 
he  watched  the  fading  glare  of  the  red  rear  light. 

"Looks  as  though  Murchison  were  taking  his  first  les 
son  in  the  value  of  theoretical  science.  Here's  hoping 
he'll  profit  by  it.  My  inoculation  seems  to  have 
'taken,'  all  right.  Now  for  home.  But,  gad,  I  wish 
I  had  one  of  those  Mindanaos  for  the  tramp!" 

Pondering  regretfully  on  the  priceless  cigar,  whereof 
the  wondrous  bouquet  still  haunted  his  memory,  Storm 
slid  off  the  wall  and  limbered  into  his  long,  loose  stride. 
As  he  went  he  whistled,  and  with  overflowing  energy 
swung  in  circles  the  heavy  walking-stick  he  always 
carried. 

"In  a  day  or  two,  three  at  the  outside,"  reflected  he, 
"I'll  be  ready  to  spring  my  proposition  on  him — or 
rather  he'll  probably  be  in  a  receptive  state  of  mind 
to  listen  to  it.  I  shouldn't  wonder  if  that  big  dinner 
he's  planning  might  be  rather  a  neat  occasion  to  drive 
things  home  and  clinch  them,  eh?" 

Murchison's  auto  by  this  time  had  already  roared 
down  the  first  of  the  long  hills  toward  Englewood.  An 
other  car,  its  lights  flinging  a  momentary  blinding 
glare,  whirred  past  up  the  gradient.  In  spite  of  his 
horrible  perturbation,  the  billionaire  smiled  grimly. 

"Too  late,  doctor !"  growled  he.  "Your  bird's  flown 
this  time,  which  won't,  however,  prevent  your  sending  in 
a  scandalous  bill." 

Then  with  a  word  to  Thomas:  "Keep  a  sharp  eye 
out  now,"  Murchison  settled  his  glasses  on  his  nose  and 
peered  eagerly  out  at  the  speeding  roadside. 


PURSUIT  37 

But,  though  they  swept  the  whole  length  of  the  Ave 
nue,  they  found  no  John  Storm.  John  was  already  far 
on  his  way  down  Hudson  Terrace  toward  Coytesville, 
where  he  knew  he  could  catch  a  car  for  Fort  Lee  ferry. 

Swinging  along  through  the  light  snow,  now  hum 
ming  a  bit  of  the  sextet  from  "Lucia,"  now  reflecting 
on  the  Mindanao  specials,  again  turning  over  in  his 
mind  the  campaign  he  had  launched  against  the  unques 
tioned  ruler  of  the  financial  world,  he  made  good  prog-^ 
ress.  Once  he  stopped  to  fill  his  pipe  and  light  it  with 
a  wisp  of  paper  at  a  flaring  street-lamp,  for  matches  he 
found  he  had  none. 

As  he  flung  the  paper  down  and  set  his  foot  on  it  he 
smiled. 

"Ashes !"  said  he  mockingly. 

The  billionaire  had  in  the  meantime  reached  the 
Englewood  railroad  station.  He,  the  economic  over 
lord  of  uncounted  millions  of  men,  now  was  hunting 
the  scientist  as  a  lost  dog  hunts  its  master's  spoor. 

"Quick,  Thomas!"  ordered  he.  "There's  a  train  in 
two  minutes.  You  look  up  and  down  the  platform — 
everywhere.  I'll  take  the  inside  of  the  station. 
Quick!" 

"Excuse  me,  sir ;  but  Mr.  Storm  can't  have  got  here 
so  soon." 

"Yes — yes,  he  can.  He  may  have  caught  a  ride 
down  on  somebody's  machine.  Go  do  as  I  tell  you." 

And  while  Thomas,  amazed,  began  to  scrutinize  all 
the  waiting  passengers  by  the  dim  station  lights,  Mur- 
chison  hastily  disappeared  into  the  building. 

The  train  clanged  in,  stopped,  pulled  out  again,  and 
left  Murchison  alarmed  and  baffled. 


38  THE  GOLDEN  BLIGHT 

Back  into  the  car  he  climbed,  shaken  with  sick  appre 
hension. 

"New  York  City — and  •>  the  speed-laws !"  direct 
ed  he.  Then,  as  the  car  wheeled  in  a  quick  circle  up  the 
station  driveway  and  surged  southbound  along  Dean 
Street,  he  flung  himself  back  against  the  cushions  and 
impotently  gnawed  at  his  mustache.  His  thoughts, 
who  shall  say? 

But  presently  the  details  of  his  immediate  plan  re 
curred  to  his  mind.  Storm's  address,  until  now  a  mere 
jotting  in  his  memorandum-book,  all  at  once  assumed  a 
tremendous,  overshadowing  importance. 

As  the  car  shot  through  the  night,  swerving  to  dodge 
trolleys,  ripping  over  crossings,  sounding  its  harsh 
siren-shriek  at  incautious  pedestrians,  Murchison 
fumbled  this  book  from  his  inner  pocket. 

He  switched  on  the  little  electric  light  in  the  roof  of 
the  limousine,  then,  with  an  abject  eagerness  which  he 
was  ashamed  to  admit  even  to  himself,  hastily  thumbed 
the  booklet. 

"Ah,  here  we  are — 75A  Danton  Place!" 

And,  as  though  the  insensate  paper  could  feel,  he 
smote  in  with  his  clenched  fist. 

"It's  ruin,  ruin — if  it's  true!"  thought  he.  "That 
devil's  capable  of  anything.  /  know  the  type.  What's 
his  game?  A  hold-up?  Wants  a  million,  does  he? 
Ten,  perhaps?  H-m!  When  I  get  through  with 
him—" 

With  savage  bitterness  he  tried  to  frame  some  coun- 
termove  to  checkmate  Storm. 

"It  must  be  some  smart  trick,  after  all,"  he  tried  to 
comfort  himself.  "Gold  is  indestructible;  that's  the 


PURSUIT  39 

hard,  cold,  scientific  fact.  No  getting  around  that. 
Some  infernal  legerdemain.  He  won't  try  it  twice, 
that's  all.  Nobody  yet  has  ever  stood  against  me — 
no  one  can." 

He  leaned  toward  the  speaking-tube. 

"Thomas!" 

"Yes,  sir." 

"Getting  all  you  can  out  of  the  machine?" 

"She's  doing  fifty  now,  sir.     I  don't  dare — " 

"Make  it  sixty." 

The  car  swayed  as  Thomas  let  her  out  another  notch. 
Her  exhaust,  with  the  muffler  cut  out,  roared  like  Nor- 
denfeldts.  The  country  road  whirled  back  at  a  reck 
less,  dizzy  pace,  ghostly-white  with  the  thin  snow 
through  which  the  tires  cut  their  long,  straight  slashes. 
Far  ahead,  the  searchlights  leaped  and  wavered.  And 
flickering  past,  the  wide-spaced  street-lamps  flung 
momentary  gleams  on  the  varnished  metal  of  the 
machine. 

Bang! 

The  car  lurched,  swerved,  gritted,  stopped. 

"What  the  devil  now?"  howled  the  billionaire. 

"Blow-out,  sir,  I  think.     But—" 

"Hang  you,  what  d'you  mean  by  putting  on  such  rot 
ten  rubber?"  To  himself  he  groaned:  "If  that  stu 
pendous  villain  sees  anybody  or  talks  with  anybody 
before  I  get  to  him,  nothing  can  undo  the  possible  dam 
age."  Then  aloud:  "How  long  now?" 

Already  he  was  out  of  the  limousine,  standing  there 
in  the  snow  with  Thomas,  his  fate  and  all  his  millions 
now  in  the  skilled  hands  of  this  chauffeur,  this  simple 
proletarian.  At  the  limp  and  flattened  tire  he  glared. 


40  THE  GOLDEN  BLIGHT 

A  great  gash  had  been  ripped  across  it;  and  from  this 
a  lolling  tongue  of  rubber  mocked  at  him,  through  the 
sardonic  grin  of  the  blow-out. 

Shaking  with  cold  and  fright,  he  could  not  restrain 
the  chattering  of  his  teeth. 
"How  long,  to  repair?" 

"Five  minutes,  sir.  Maybe  ten— not  more  than  ten 
at  the  outside.  I've  got  to  jack  the  axle  up,  sir,  you 
see,  and  bolt  on  the  spare — " 

"Go  on,  get  to  work  then!     Don't  waste  time  ex 
plaining.     Get  at  it !" 
"Yes,  sir." 

And  while  Murchison  tramped  up  and  down  in  the 
December  night,  his  soul  aflame  with  haste  and  hate  and 
fear,  the  chauffeur  got  out  tools  and  set  to  work. 
"Thomas !" 
"Sir?" 

"Can't  you  run  on  the  tire,  as  it  is?" 
"No,  sir.     I  can't  make  speed,  that  way.     Besides, 
sir,  the  tire  would  chaw  up  and  maybe  wreck  us.     It'll 
be  money  in  your  pocket,  sir — " 

"Go  on,  then— and  be  quick,  quick !     Your  job  hangs 
on  your  making  good,  now !" 
"Yes,  sir." 

Thomas  had  underestimated  the  time,  for  the  nuts 
and  bolts,  set  by  the  frost,  defied  him.     One  wrench  he 
broke;    he    bent    another    before    the    spare    rim    was 
clinched  home.     A  full  quarter-hour  had  passed,  and 
Murchison  was  holding  himself  only  by  a  strong  exer 
cise  of  will  before  all  was  ready  once  more. 
"Right,  sir,"  announced  Thomas  at  length. 
Without  a  word  the  billionaire  jumped  into  the  car. 


PURSUIT  41 

"Seventy-five  A,  Danton  Place,  New  York!"  cried 
he.  "And  if  you  want  to  hold  your  job,  you  make  it 
inside  half  an  hour." 

"Yes,  sir.  But  if  we  don't  connect  right  with  the 
ferry—" 

"Not  another  word !     Go !" 

Luck  held  bad.  They  missed  a  boat  fcy  one  minute 
and  a  half.  This  cost  them  a  ten-minute  wait.  And 
on  Manhattan  Street,  across  the  river,  they  were  held 
for  six  minutes  by  a  long  freight  which,  alternately 
backing  and  going  ahead,  blocked  the  way.  Not  all 
Murchison's  hot  haste  and  bitter  rage  could  clear  that 
train  from  the  street.  Savagely  he  recalled  that  he 
himself  owned  sixty-five  per  cent,  of  the  stock  of  that 
railroad. 

"Every  man  of  this  particular  train-crew  gets  the 
blue  envelope  to-morrow,"  thought  he.  "And  these 
tracks  go  underground  before  this  time  next  year." 

The  reflection  gave  him  some  grains  of  chilly  com 
fort.  But,  none  the  less,  his  nerves  were  worn  down 
fine  long  before  the  auto  whirled  and  skidded  around 
the  corner  into  Danton  Place,  and  with  a  sudden  cramp 
of  brakes  hauled  up  in  front  of  75A. 

Before  Thomas  could  get  down  to  open  the  door  for 
him,  Murchison  was  on  the  sidewalk.  Up  and  down  the 
street  he  peered.  Good  fortune,  perhaps,  might  show 
him  John  Storm  just  getting  home. 

But  no — not  a  sign  of  him  appeared.  Murchison 
cast  a  quick  glance  at  the  building.  Here  a  stationery- 
store  ;  next,  a  pretty  little  milliner's  shop,  with  a  ravish 
ing  display  of  feathers,  hats,  and  gowns,  at  sight  of 
which  Murchison  cursed  savagely.  No  sign,  however, 


42  THE  GOLDEN  BLIGHT 

of  dwelling-places.  Then  the  billionaire  saw  a  door 
way,  recessed  from  the  street. 

"Ah,  here  we  are !" 

Waiting  not  for  Thomas,  who  stood  astonished  on 
the  sidewalk,  he  pushed  open  the  door  and  entered. 

A  row  of  letter-boxes  and  electric  buttons  was  dimly 
visible  at  the  right.  Murchison  drew  out  his  cigar- 
lighter.  By  its  pale  flame  he  read  the  tenants'  cards. 

"Hanson?  No.  Burbank?  Wilson?  No.  Ah, 
John  Storm,  Consulting  Physicist !" 

With  a  sudden  thrill  of  nervousness  he  rang  Storm's 
bell.  But,  though  he  waited,  rang  again  and  waited, 
and  once  more  rang,  no  reply  sounded  down  the  tube. 
No  click  of  the  innerdoor  latch  bade  him  come  up. 

"The  devil !"  breathed  Murchison. 

He  tried  another  bell,  which  was  answered.  Pant 
ing,  he  climbed  three  flights  of  dim-lit  stairs.  A  gela 
tinous  woman  in  a  wrapper,  peering  over  the  banisters, 
demanded  his  errand. 

"No,  I  don't  know  anything  about  anybody  here. 
Sorry,  but  I  can't  tell  you  where  he  is,  or  anything," 
said  she,  when  he  had  stated  the  object  of  his  search. 

Then  she  vanished  and  a  door  closed. 

Though  Murchison  tried  every  available  person  in 
the  house,  he  got  no  information.  But  he  had  to  hear 
a  number  of  caustic  commentaries  anent  the  rousing- 
up  of  weary  folk  at  that  hour  of  the  night.  Meekly 
enough  the  financial  suzerain  of  the  world  endured 
these  slings  and  arrows.  Storm's  door  was  impreg 
nable.  Only  one  thing  the  billionaire  made  sure  of — -. 
the  scientist  was  not  at  home. 

"Where  the  deuce  is  he,  anyhow?     And  what  next?'' 


PURSUIT  43 

thought  the  financier,  wrought  to  a  bitter  pitch  of 
irritation  as  he  stood  before  the  physicist's  unrespond- 
ing  door. 

Then,  realizing  that  undue  eagerness  might  cause 
suspicion  and  subject  him  to  unwelcome  observation,  he 
mastered  his  consuming  impatience. 

"See  me  at  once  at  the  Imperial  Arms  Hotel,"  he 
scribbled  in  pencil  on  one  of  his  cards.  "Failure  to  do 
so  will  entail  serious  results  to  you" 

This  card  he  thrust  under  Storm's  door ;  then,  morose 
and  very  angry,  made  his  way  down  to  the  machine 
again. 

"Imperial  Arms!"  he  commanded  Thomas  curtly. 
To  himself  said  he:  "The  devilish  fool  may  have  al 
ready  told  somebody  how  he  hoaxed  me  this  evening. 
Why,  this  very  moment  he  may  be  laughing  over  it  in 
some  cafe  with  some  of  his  cronies!  All  a  fine  joke, 
eh?  But  if  it  gets  out — if  there's  any  grain  of  truth 
in  it — what  then?" 

He  pondered  for  a  moment  as  the  car  got  under  way 
once  more. 

"Truth?  Bah!"  gibed  he.  "Truth?  It's  impos 
sible.  It  can't  be  so — it  is  not!" 

But  his  face  was  grim  and  very  pale  as  he  leaned 
back,  exhausted,  physically  and  mentally  beaten  out, 
against  the  deep  leather  cushions  of  the  limousine. 


CHAPTER  VI 

CONVINCED    AT    LAST 

JOHN  STORM,  during  this  time  of  nerve-rack  and  dis 
tress  for  Murchison,  was  thinking  of  quite  other  things. 

All  the  way  in  to  town  the  memory  of  that  precious, 
that  incomparable  Mindanao  had  haunted  him.  His 
pipe,  after  that  priceless  smoke,  had  utterly  failed  to 
satisfy. 

Only  in  the  background  of  his  mind  now  dwelt  the 
scene  of  the  gold  transmutation,  the  sense  of  power,  of 
success,  and  strife,  and  future  conflict.  The  priceless 
weed  from  that  far,  southern  slope — vague  as  a  fable  of 
the  Blessed  Western  Isles,  and  seemingly  as  hopeless  of 
attainment — obsessed  his  soul. 

"Gad !"  mused  he.  "If  I  only  had  the  power,  now,  of 
turning  Havanas  into  those!" 

Impatiently  he  walked  the  deck,  unsatisfied.  The 
one  great  physical  need  and  craving  he  had  ever  known, 
ever  been  dominated  by,  the  fine,  discriminating,  over 
mastering  love  of  good  tobacco,  was  strong  at  work 
upon  him. 

When  he  reached  Manhattan,  instead  of  going 
straight  home,  as 'a  matter  of  course,  Storm  turned 
into  Amsterdam  Avenue,  and  walked  south,  three  blocks, 
to  One  Hundred  and  Twenty-Third  Street.  Near  the 
corner,  a  curious  old  Porto  Rican,  who  rejoiced  in  the 

44 


CONVINCED  AT  LAST  45 

title  of  Manuel  Rincon  y  Barra,  had  long  kept  a  tiny 
hole-in-the-wall  shop,  where  he  dispensed  quaint  philoso 
phy,  and  the  finest,  rarest  cigars  to  be  found  anywhere 
on  the  Island — odd  brands,  broken  lots,  special  smokes 
with  weird  names  from  unknown  places. 

Storm  entertained  shrewd  suspicions  about  the  legit 
imacy  of  some  of  this  business ;  there  seemed  a  scarcity 
of  United  States  revenue-stamps  in  the  establishment. 
None  the  less,  Barra's  wisdom  and  unparalleled  weeds 
had  long  held  his  interest. 

He  spent  half  an  hour  there,  with  the  brown-faced, 
spectacled,  smiling  patriarch — half  an  hour  of  the 
same  time  when  Murchison,  with  febrile  anxiety,  was 
seeking  him. 

Only  when  Barra  had  admitted  that  neither  in  his 
own  shop,  nor  in  any  other  whatsoever  could  Vuelta 
Aba  jo  Mindanaos  be  procured,  did  Storm,  with  deep 
dejection,  take  the  Subway,  homeward  bound. 

All  the  way  down-town  his  mind  dwelt  anxiously  on 
this  problem,  and  more  than  once  he  softly  swore 
within  himself. 

But  Murchison's  card,  under  the  door,  diverted  him. 
Certainly  that  was  a  pregnant  development. 

"H-m-m-1"  mused  the  physicist,  as  he  turned  up  the 
gas  and  read  the  penciled  message.  "I  knew  I'd  hear 
from  him,  sure  enough,  but  I  hardly  thought  he'd  follow 
me  up  to-night.  He  must  be  in  a  panic!  So  soon? 
What  will  he  do  when  I  really  get  down  to  busi 
ness?" 

Then,  with  an  odd  smile,  he  tossed  the  card  into  the 
waste-basket.  And,  quite  ignoring  the  billionaire's  im 
perative  command  of  "See  me  at  once!"  he  calmly  un- 


46  THE  GOLDEN  BLIGHT 

dressed  and  went  to  bed  in  the  little  room  opening  off 
his  study. 

"I  might  as  well  get  a  little  sleep  before  he  routs  me 
out,"  thought  he,  as  he  stretched  between  the  sheets. 
It's  quarter  of  twelve  now.  I  give  him  till  two  A.  M.  at 
latest.  Well,  we  shall  see  what  we  shall  see." 

He  turned  over  and  began  to  think  of  Mindanaos 
again.  Five  minutes  later  he  was  sleeping  the  sleep  of 
the  absolutely  healthy. 

Storm's  calculations  proved  correct  within  a  rea 
sonably  close  margin.  For  hardly  had  his  little  alarm- 
clock  ticked  out  three  hours,  when  the  trilling  of  his 
door-bell,  persistent  and  compelling,  aroused  him. 

"Gad!  I've  got  company  at  last,  I  guess,"  he 
yawned,  sitting  up  in  bed.  "No  hurry  though.  Let 
him  have  time  enough  to  think  things  over.  He  won't 
go  away,  never  fear!" 

With  which  he  very  deliberately  got  out  of  bed,  put 
on  slippers  and  bath-robe,  and  went  into  his  study.  He 
closed  the  bed-room  door  behind  him  again — for  all 
the  windows  in  there  were  open  wide — then  lighted  the 
gas,  and  went  to  admit  his  distinguished  guest. 

"What?  You,  sir?"  he  greeted  Murchison,  with 
feigned  astonishment.  Then  he  smiled,  and  offered  his 
hand,  which  the  billionaire  did  not  accept. 

Murchison  stood  blinking  with  anger  and  embarrass 
ment,  yet  through  it  all  Storm  could  sense  the  tre 
mendous  relief  of  the  financier  at  having  found  him. 
The  billionaire's  face  went  a  dull  red.  Then,  not  even 
waiting  an  invitation,  he  pushed  passed  Storm. 

"You  got  my  card?"  he  demanded. 

"I  did,"  Storm  answered  calmly  as  he  closed  the 


CONVINCED  AT  LAST  47 

door.  "Sorry,  but  I  really  couldn't  keep  the  appoint 
ment.  After  a  hard  day's  work — " 

"The  worst  day's  work  you've  ever  done!"  snarled 
Murchison.  "Now,  let  me  tell  you — let  me  say — " 

He  stammered,  coughed,  and  struggled  in  vain  for 
words. 

Storm,  a  tall,  powerful  figure  in  his  loose  gown,  ran 
his  fingers  through  his  unruly  thatch  of  hair,  and  smiled 
again. 

"By  the  way,"  remarked  he,  "if  we're  really  going 
to  discuss  things,  do  you  mind  my  inquiring  whether 
you've  got  a  stray  Mindinao  in  your  clothes?" 

Murchison  glared. 

"You  impudent  hound !"  he  flung  at  the  scientist. 

Storm's  face  hardened. 

"Beg  pardon?"  asked  he.  "Were  you  addressing 
me,  sir?" 

"Yes,  I  was !  And  I  repeat  it !  I  add  charlatan  and 
trickster,  mountebank  and — and — "  He  choked  again. 
But  his  fist,  clenched  with  passion,  shook  square  at  the 
scientist. 

Storm  kept  a  moment's  silence.  He  coughed  slightly, 
thrust  his  thumbs  through  the  cord  of  his  bath-robe, 
and  began  to  pmce  the  floor  with  even  strides. 

The  faint  slap,  slap,  slap  of  his  straw  Chinese  slip 
pers  punctuated  iJbe  tension.  Then  he  stopped,  faced 
Murchison,  and  eyed  him  with  a  smile  of  quizzical  in 
terest. 

"What  d'you  mean,"  cried  he,  "by  putting  up  a  game 
like  this  on  me?  Me?  By  coming  out  to  Edgecliff  and 
playing  your  infernal  tricks?  Think  you  can  put  this 
over  me,  and  get  away  with  it?  If  so — well — I  reckon 


48  THE  GOLDEN  BLIGHT 

you've  got  a  thing  or  two  to  learn,  that's  all.  And 
you'll  regret  it,  too !  Hear  me?" 

"Yes,  I  hear  you  all  right  enough,"  answered  Storm 
quietly.  "But  what  you're  driving  at,  I  don't  know. 
Can  it  be  you're  laboring  under  the  delusion  that — that 
I've  been  deceiving  you,  maybe?  That  what  I've  shown 
you  is  mere  claptrap  and  deception  ?  If  so,  the  quicker 
you  forget  it,  the  better! 

"Tricks?"  And  Storm's  long  forefinger  jabbed  vig 
orously  at  Murchison,  who  stood  there  shaking  with  ex 
citement,  a  strange  little  figure  in  the  bulky  greatcoat 
of  Persian  lamb. 

"Tricks,  eh?  See  here,  now — I've  played  no  tricks 
on  you!  It's  all  dead  earnest,  this  business.  If  you 
prefer  to  consider  it  make-believe,  of  course  that's  your 
own  prerogative.  But  I  warn  you  now,  you're  on  the 
wrong  track.  Dead  wrong!  And  the  sooner  you  get 
off  it,  in  dealing  with  me,  the  better !  That's  all !" 

His  jaw  snapped  shut.  His  eyes  hardened  with  an 
expression  Murchison  never  yet  had  seen  in  them. 
For  a  moment  the  billionaire  met  his  gaze,  but  only 
for  a  moment.  Then  the  elder  man's  eyes  fell,  and 
with  a  dry  tongue  he  tried  to  moisten  his  parched  lips. 

Storm  gripped  the  edge  of  the  table  and  leaned  for 
ward. 

"See  here!"  said  he.  "There's  nothing  in  this  mat 
ter  but  just  hard,  cold,  scientific  fact.  Get  that?  I've 
got  a  purpose  in  view.  A  purpose,  you  understand? 
What's  more,  I'm  going  to  get  what  I'm  after.  Going 
—to— get— it!  That's  flat!" 

"Humph !"  sneered  Murchison.  But  all  at  once,  with 
a  cry,  he  clapped  his  hand  to  his  face. 


CONVINCED  AT  LAST  49 

"Oh!"  he  ejaculated.     "My  glasses!" 

Storm  grinned  broadly. 

"Yes,  I  shouldn't  wonder  if  you  would  need  another 
pair,"  said  he.  "Really,  I  hate  to  deprive  you  of  any 
more  property  just  yet.  But  it  seems  as  though  you 
weren't  sufficiently  convinced.  Look  out!  Save  the 
lenses !" 

Dazed,  Murchison  was  fumbling  at  his  face.  Came 
a  sharp  "clink!"  as  one  of  the  lenses  fell  to  the  floor. 
The  billionaire's  glasses,  as  such,  had  ceased  to  exist. 
Down  his  fur  coat  clung  little  dabs  of  powder;  some 
had  even  lodged  in  his  mustache.  And  the  silken  cord 
which  had  held  the  glasses  now  dangled  futilely  from 
his  ear. 

"Your  watch!"  cried  Storm. 

Almost  as  he  spoke  a  muffled  buzzing  became  audible 
near  Murchison's  equator.  Cursing,  the  billionaire 
ripped  open  his  coat.  His  fingers  sought  his  watch- 
pocket.  Then  they  recoiled  as  though  a  viper  had  been 
hidden  there. 

"Go  on,  see  what's  left !"  gibed  the  scientist. 

Murchison,  deadly  pale,  tremulously  dredged  out  a 
little  of  the  same  gray  powder,  together  with  an  absurd, 
incongruous  jumble  of  springs  and  tiny  wheels,  and,  in 
the  midst  of  all,  an  intact  crystal — the  utter  wreck  of 
his  magnificent  gold  watch. 

Toward  the  door  Murchison  retreated,  gasping. 

"You — you  hell-hound !"  gulped  he. 

"Thanks!"  answered  Storm,  bowing.  "That's  bet 
ter.  No  charlatan,  now,  eh?  No  trickster?  You 
flatter  me,  sir.  I  congratulate  you,  too,  on  your  final 
perception  of  the  truth. 


50  THE  GOLDEN  BLIGHT 

"But,  sir,  if  you'll  pardon  my  saying  so,  you're  in  no 
fit  condition  to-night  for  any  rational  discussion  of  the 
program  I've  mapped  out.  I  hardly  think  you  and  I 
could  come  to  an  understanding  just  yet.  To-morrow 
morning  will  be  much  better,  won't  it?  Shall  we  make 
it  eleven  o'clock,  here  in  this  room?  Agreed,  then, 
since  silence  gives  consent.  But  be  on  time,  please. 
I've  got  an  appointment  at  eleven-thirty. 

"And  now,"  he  continued,  yawning,  "I  really  must 
ask  you  to  let  me  have  a  little  sleep.  To-morrow 
there'll  be  time  enough  for  everything,  but  we  both  of 
us  need  a  good  snooze.  And— pardon  me  mentioning 
it — if  you'll  only  be  so  kind  as  to  bring  in  a  couple  of 
those  cigars  the  discussion  will  be  much  facilitated. 
Good  night !" 

^  But  Murchison  gave  no  answer,  nor  did  he  make  any 
sign  of  withdrawing.  He  only  stood  there,  dazed,  his 
pallid  face  all  wrinkled  and  baggy  and  odd-looking, 
very,  very  old  and  drawn,  as  though  the  sap  and  life 
had  all  been  drained  from  his  flesh. 

Storm  shot  a  glance  at  him,  then  turned  and  slatted 
over  to  the  window  overlooking  Danton  Place.  This 
window  he  threw  up  with  one  vigorous  gesture.  He 
leaned  out. 

There,  at  the  curb  below,  Murchison's  car  was 
standing,  its  engine  singing  a  quiet,  contented  little 
monotone.  The  figure  of  Thomas,  patiently  waiting, 
lounged  against  a  mud-guard. 

"Oh,  there,  Thomas !     Thomas !"  hailed  Storm. 
"Yes,  sir?"  the  man  called  back,  starting  to  attention. 
"You're  wanted  here." 
"Yes,  sir." 


CONVINCED  AT  LAST  51 

"Come  right  up,  please!" 

Storm  closed  the  window.  He  turned,'  to  find  the 
billionaire  fumbling  at  some  object  which  he  had  already 
half  drawn  from  the  pocket  of  the  great  fur  coat.  A 
flick  of  light  showed  that  this  object  was  metal.  In 
stinctively  Storm  realized  Murchison  had  a  revolver. 

"Put  that  toy  back  there !"  commanded  he,  laughing 
dryly  with  caustic  scorn.  "Your  hand's  shaking  so 
you  couldn't  hit  a  barn  door  at  ten  paces.  More  likely 
than  not  you'll  hurt  yourself  if  you  try  to  shoot. 
Come,  come,  now,  Murchison,  don't  make  an  ass  of 
yourself !" 

On  the  stairway  sounded  a  step ;  at  the  door  a  knock. 

"There's  Thomas,"  said  Storm.  "Quick,  get  that 
gun  out  o'  sight  before  I  let  him  in!" 

With  a  thin-lipped  grimace,  the  billionaire,  over 
mastered,  slid  the  revolver  back  into  his  pocket. 

"Thanks,"  remarked  Storm  as  he  opened  the  door. 
"I'm  glad  you're  going  to  be  sensible,  and  not  force  me 
to  get  unpleasant.  Now,  Thomas,"  he  added  to  the 
chauffeur,  "Mr.  Murchison  isn't  feeling  well.  He 
oughtn't  to  have  come  at  all.  If  you'll  pilot  him  down 
stairs,  he'll  be  greatly  obliged. 

"He's  broken  his  glasses,  you  understand,  and  can't 
see  plainly.  I  advise  you  to  get  him  back  home  as  soon 
as  possible.  Mind  the  stairs.  There's  a  bad  place  on 
the  second  landing.  All  right?  Good  night!" 

In  the  doorway  Murchison  paused,  turned,  and  with 
a  ghastly,  masklike  face  of  fear  and  hate,  raised  his  fist 
at  the  imperturbable  Storm.  Then  he  let  Thomas, 
filled  with  a  vast  wonder,  lead  him  away. 

After  they  were  gone,  Storm  sat  down  in  his  big, 


52  THE  GOLDEN  BLIGHT 

shabby,  comfortable  armchair  by  the  littered  table, 
carefully  filled  a  pipe  and  lighted  it. 

As  the  first  clouds  of  smoke  puffed  ceilingward  he 
heard  the  faint  slam  of  an  automobile  door.  Then 
came  a  humming,  the  throw-in  of  a  clutch,  the  vanishing 
cahoot-hoot-hoot  of  a  siren. 

"Au  revoir"  murmured  he,  leaning  back  contentedly, 
and  with  thoughtful  interest  considering  the  eye-glass 
lens  that  still  lay  upon  the  floor.  He  picked  it  up  and 
put  it  carefully  away  in  his  table  drawer.  "Some 
souvenir!"  smiled  he. 

He  smoked  a  while,  in  thought,  then  took  a  note-book 
from  the  table  drawer  and  entered  half  a  page  of  notes. 

This  done,  he  turned  out  all  lights  and  once  more 
went  to  bed. 

"I  guess  you're  convinced  now,  at  last,"  thought  he. 
"That's  the  first  step.  And  you'll  take  the  second,  too, 
my  man,  or  there'll  be  plenty  of  trouble,  that's  all!" 

Whereafter,  his  conscience  being  good,  and  all  things 
working  according  to  schedule,  he  turned  over  and  fell 
fast  asleep,  to  dream  of  priceless  Mindanaos  by  the 
million,  which  Murchison,  who  somehow  looked  like  the 
Porto  Rican  tobacconist,  kept  changing  into  worthless 
golden  bars  as  fast  as  Storm  reached  for  them. 

But  all  that  long  night  through,  after  having  with 
his  own  hands  cleaned  up  the  library,  collected  the  gold- 
ash,  and  hidden  it  in  his  safe,  the  billionaire,  in  anguish, 
hate  and  futile  rage,  paced  the  floor  of  his  magnificent 
bedroom  at  Edgecliff . 

And  the  gray  winter  morn  was  not  more  pale,  more 
cold  and  desolate,  than  he,  owner  of  millions,  master  of 
the  world. 


CHAPTER  VII 

JOHN  STORM'S  DEMAND 

"Now,  Storm,  just  what  are  you  driving  at?  What 
is  it  you  want?"  demanded  Murchison.  "We're  not 
children,  you  and  I.  We're  men,  practical  men,  men  of 
sense  and  judgment.  I  admit,  first  off,  you've  put  me 
in  a  tight  place.  Only  a  fool  tries  to  bluff  a  royal  flush 
with  two  pair.  Show  down — let's  see  what  you've  got ! 

"No  reason  why  we  should  play  at  cross-purposes. 
Let's  get  together !  And  if  your  demands  are  anywhere 
within  reason,  why,  I  reckon  maybe  I  can  meet  them." 

Storm  smiled,  that  enigmatic  smile  of  his,  and  passed 
a  hand  along  his  freshly  shaven  chin.  Fit  as  a  fighting- 
cock  was  he,  after  six  hours'  sleep  and  a  cold  shower. 
And  the  realization  that  Murchison  had  obeyed  his  will, 
had  come  back  again  at  11  A.  M.  sharp,  was  very  good. 

"Let  me  take  your  coat,"  offered  he.  "That's  right ; 
we  can  talk  better  if  we're  both  comfortable.  Now, 
won't  you  try  my  big  chair?  It  fits  the  back  better 
than  any  other  I've  ever  known.  So.  In  the  third 
place,  pardon  me  for  asking,  but  do  you  happen  to  have 
an  extra  Vuelta  Aba  jo  you're  not  going  to  use?  If 
so,  I  know  where  it  will  do  lots  of  good." 

Murchison  sat  down,  and  very  grimly  pulled  out  a 
leather  cigar-case,  richly  tooled. 

"I'm  not  taking  any  more  chances  with  gold,  you 

53 


54  THE  GOLDEN  BLIGHT 

see,"  he  growled,  with  just  the  faintest  trace  of  a  sour 
smile.  "Here,  help  yourself.  I've  got  four  with  me, 
Take  two.  That's  fair,  isn't  it?" 

"One  will  do — for  now — thank  you,"  answered 
Storm. 

For  a  moment  he  held  the  long,  soft,  black  weed  in 
his  fingers,  with  an  expression  such  as  perhaps  another 
man  might  show  on  receiving  a  love-letter  from  his 
adored.  His  gaze  softened  as  he  sniffed  the  ineffable 
aroma  of  the  cigar. 

At  last  he  lighted  it.     For  a  moment  he  closed  his 
eyes,  sensing  to  the  full  its  wondrous  bouquet.     Then, 
with  a  sigh  of  contentment,  he  opened  them  again. 
"Now,"  said  he,  "I'm  ready  to  talk  business." 
"What  is  it  you  want?"  exclaimed  the  billionaire,  his 
thin  fingers   drumming  the   chair-arm.     "What's   the 
game     all     about,     anyhow?     A     hold-up?     Money? 
Position?     What?" 
"Power!" 
"What?" 

"Power,  I  repeat.  And,  what's  more,  I'm  going  to 
get  it.  This  is  to  be  straight  talk,  Murchison,  without 
any  frills  or  evasions.  Listen.  You're  used  to  power. 
It's  your  breath  and  life  and  soul.  You're  used  to  com 
manding,  dictating.  You  say  'Go !'  and  men  go,  by  the 
million.  'Come !'  and  they  come.  'Do  so  and  so !'  and 
they  do  it — they  have  to,  or  else  starve. 

"But  now,  Murchison,"  and  he  poised  the  cigar  in 
mid  air,  jabbing  with  it  to  emphasize  his  words,  "now 
you  are  in  for  a  new  experience.  You're  face  to  face 
with  something  you  can  neither  understand  nor  yet 
control.  You're  up  against  a  fact,  now,  not  a  theory. 


JOHN  STORM'S  DEMAND         55 

A  new  kind  of  fact,  altogether,  a  new  force,  outside  of 
and  vastly  bigger  than  any  you've  ever  so  much  as 
dreamed  of.  Understand?" 

He  paused,  as  for  an  answer.  Murchison,  fidgeting 
with  his  mustache,  nodded  evasively. 

"Well,  what  are  you  driving  at?"  asked  he,  in  a 
throaty,  thin  voice. 

"You'll  find  out  soon  enough.  This  new  force  at  my 
disposal,  can,  and  will,  undermine  all  the  power  of  you 
and  of  your  class.  There's  no  such  thing  as  withstand 
ing  or  combating  it,  or  doing  anything  at  all  with  it 
except  just  to  placate  it  and  surrender  as  gracefully  as 
possible.  From  your  hands,  power  is  about  to  pass 
into  mine — and  when  I  say  'you,'  I  mean  your  class,  the 
capitalist  class  as  a  whole.  I  represent  the  other  class, 
the  proletariat.  Am  I  clear,  or  am  I  not?" 

"Goon!" 

Before  continuing,  Storm  smoked  a  moment  in  silence. 
Then  he  sat  down  on  the  table-top  and  swung  his  leg 
easily  over  the  edge. 

"You're  in  my  grip,  Murchison,  you  and  your  whole 
class,  the  class  of  exploiters,  parasites  and  war-makers 
— the  spoilers  of  the  world. 

"I've  demonstrated  my  abilities.  If  you  force  me,  I 
can  go  farther.  In  fact,  I'll  go  as  far  as  necessary 
to  bring  you  all  to  your  knees.  But  I  advise  you,  for 
your  own  good,  that  the  sooner  you  make  terms  with 
me,  the  better." 

"Oh,  drop  all  that!"  ejaculated  the  billionaire. 
"Suppose  I  take  you  at  your  own  word,  what  then? 
What  do  you  want?  Grant  you  all  the  power  in  the 
world — what  are  you  aiming  to  do  with  it?  What?" 


56  THE  GOLDEN  BLIGHT 

His  voice  had  recovered  a  little  of  its  usual  tone ;  and 
back  into  his  eyes — now  blinking  through  silver-bowed 
glasses — something  of  their  ordinary,  keen,  shrewd 
penetration  had  returned. 

"What  are  you  after,  with  your  power?"  repeated 
Murchison.  "And  why  do  you  make  your  demands  on 
me?  I  employ  you  to  carry  on  certain  research  work 
for  me,  and  all  at  once  you  spring  this  coup.  If  the 
thing's  true,  and  I  admit  it  looks  true,  you  certainly 
have  got  us  fellows  into  a  most  infernally  small  corner. 
But  from  what  I  know  of  you,  I  don't  believe  you're 
out  merely  to  destroy.  A  fanatic  you  may  be,  but  I 
reckon  you're  decently  honest.  What's  up?" 

"I'll  tell  you,  in  a  minute.  But  first  let  me  make 
my  game  quite  clear.  I've  been  working  on  radioactivi 
ties  for  eight  years  now,  and,  Gad!  they've  led  me  a 
pretty  chase.  A  few  times  I've  just  come  off  alive, 
and  no  more;  and  if  you  cared  to  see  them,  I  could 
show  you  a  dozen  scars  from  the  pitiless  bombarding 
of  ions  and  all  that.  Yes,  I  know  the  game. 

"Where  other  men  have  courted  womankind,  I've 
courted  X-rays,  N-rays,  cathode-rays,  Hertzian  waves, 
wireless  projection,  and  all  that  sort  of  thing.  The 
Curies,  Becquerel,  Lodge,  Crookes,  and  the  rest,  have 
nothing  to  teach  me.  I've  begun  where  they've  left 
off.  The  human  race,  in  regard  to  radio-activity, 
Murchison,  stands  to-day  just  about  where  it  stood  in 
regard  to  fire,  when  only  a  few  of  our  anthropoid 
ancestors  knew  how  to  make  it — when  it  was  all  a  red, 
roaring  mystery,  heaven-sent,  to  the  hairy  hordes  that 
roamed  the  jungles. 

"But  I — well — I  understand  the  matter.     Yes,  quite 


JOHN  STORM'S  DEMAND         57 

fully.  I  can  produce  strange  forces,  and  direct  them. 
This  may  sound  like  boasting,  Murchison,  but  it  isn't. 
It's  just  plain  fact.  And  now,  how  am  I  going  to 
apply  it?" 

"Yes,  yes!  That's  the  question!"  burst  out  Mur 
chison,  leaning  a  little  forward.  "What  next?" 

"This:  That  you  and  yours  hereafter  do  my  bid 
ding,  or — " 

"'You  try  to  wreck  us  all?" 

"Not  only  try,  but  really  do  it!  That's  putting  it 
into  good,  plain  English,  isn't  it?  I'm  going  to  use 
my  power  to  bring  you  and  your  kind  to  heel.  To 
make  you  do  my  bidding.  Not  to  extort  money  from 
you — never  fear.  This  is  no  Black  Hand  affair.  I 
don't  need  or  want  a  penny.  What  I'm  after  is  dom 
ination  over  you  mischief-makers  that  keep  the  world 
perpetually  in  war  and  ferment  and  hot  turmoil. 

"Wherever  you  people  go,  you  capitalists,  you  set 
Hell  in  motion.  Like  noxious  ferments,  like  malignant 
bacilli  invading  a  body,  you  set  up  every  kind  of  pestif 
erous  reaction — and,  so  that  you  may  have  your  gold, 
the  world  has  strikes,  gun-men,  murder,  starvation, 
plague,  adulteration,  corrupt  politics,  broken  faith, 
hate,  lies,  ugliness  and  war. 

"For  you  the  machine-guns  sweep  the  mining-camps. 
For  you  are  women  and  nursing  babes  mangled  with 
explosive  bullets,  piled  into  heaps,  saturated  with  kero 
sene  and  burned  in  hideous  pyres  by  thugs  and  offscour 
ings  from  the  slums !  For  you — " 

"Stop!     Stop,  I  tell  you!" 

"For  you  and  your  damnecj  gold  some  human  fiend 
yells  'Fire!'  at  a  miners'  celebration,  and  seventy  chil- 


58  THE  GOLDEN  BLIGHT 

dren  are  trampled  to  a  bleeding  pulp!  For  you,  hid 
ing  behind  your  monstrous  fraud  of  'Follow  the  Flag,' 
the  blood  of  millions  of  strong  men  is  poured  out  in 
war.  For  you — but  why  say  more?  The  list  of  out 
rages  and  horrors  would  take  all  day,  in  the  mere  tell 
ing.  Your  hands,  there,  Murchison — white  as  they 
seem — are  dripping  red  with  human  blood — the  blood 
of  men,  women,  children.  Look  at  them,  do  you? 
See  it  there  ?  Ugh,  you  beast !" 

Storm  slid  off  the  table  and  strode  over  to  the  bil 
lionaire,  who  now  had  sunk  down  in  his  chair  and  was 
staring  at  this  terrible  accuser. 

"Listen!"  cried  Storm,  shaking  a  long  forefinger  in 
the  billionaire's  face.  "Listen,  now!  The  world  is 
tired  of  you  and  your  class,  sick  and  weary  of  your 
mean  and  bloody  work.  It's  ready  for  a  change,  and 
I — I'm  on  the  job  to  help  it. 

"I've  got  the  whip-hand,  now,  and  I'm  going  to  lash 
you  to  a  fare-ye-well.  You  and  your  kind  have  long 
flooded  the  earth  with  the  workers'  blood.  Now  I'm 
going  to  strike  back  at  you.  But  don't  be  alarmed 
for  your  own  precious  skin,  you  coward!  I  won't 
touch  a  hair  of  your  hypocritical,  charitable,  mission 
ary-promoting,  pious  old  head.  Not  a  hair.  And 
you'll  lose  no  drop  of  your  cold  blood.  But  I'll  lay 
the  lash  on  where  it  will  hurt  you  worse  and  make  you 
jump  higher — on  to  your  pocket-book,  damn  you!" 

"What?" 

"That's  what  I'm  going  to  do — unless  you  tag  my 
heel  like  a  whipped  cur,  you  and  all  the  others  like  you. 
No  beating  round  the  bush  now,  Murchison,  no  mincing 
words  or  diplomatizing.  I've  got  you  people  in  bad, 


JOHN  STORM'S  DEMAND          59 

and  I'm  going  to  boss  you  to  a  finish.  You're  going 
to  obey,  or — well,  your  power  and  magnificence,  your 
vast  properties,  your  trade  and  commerce,  your  every 
thing  won't  be  worth  ihatl" 

He  snapped  the  ash  from  his  cigar  and  ground  it 
beneath  his  foot. 

"You — you'll  pay  for  this,  you — you — "  stammered 
the  billionaire;  but  Storm  laughed  in  his  writhen  face. 

"Pay,  eh?  Yes,  I'm  likely  to — I  don't  think.  Just 
try  to  start  something,  and  see.  Gold  is  God,  for  your 
class  and  for  you.  Well,  you're  worshiping  dust  and 
ashes. 

"Whatever  contains  gold,  lies  in  my  power.  No 
matter  in  what  part  of  the  world  it  is,  whether  in  your 
pocket,  in  Wall  Street,  in  London,  Berlin  or  Bombay  or 
Hong-Kong,  I  can  reach  it! 

"Your  cigar-case  last  night  was  no  harder  and  no 
easier  to  disintegrate  than  would  be  the  British  crown- 
jewel  gold  in  the  Tower.  And  just  as  easily  could  I 
crumble  the  Dragon  Throne  in  Pekin,  the  Czar's  dia 
dem,  or  the  Sublime  Porte's  insignia  on  the  banks  of 
the  Bosporus.  Which  you  will  admit,"  he  added,  blow 
ing  a  fog  of  smoke,  "is  going — some!19 

"Bah !"  jibed  Murchison.  "Don't  try  to  make  a  fool 
of  me,  young  man !  Some. little  local  influence  you  may 
perhaps  possess,  but — " 

"I'm  giving  you  this  straight,"  interrupted  Storm. 
"There's  no  particular  advantage  in  a  man's  bluffing 
when  he  holds  a  royal  flush,  as  you  yourself  have  al 
ready  remarked.  Whatever  contains  gold  is  'meat' 
to  me. 

"The  higher  the  quality,  the  more  complete  is  my 


60  THE  GOLDEN  BLIGHT 

control.  From  24K  down  to  about  18K,  I  can  trans 
mute  it  into  a  powder  of  more  or  less  fineness,  as  you 
know.  Below  that,  while  I  can  entirely  eliminate  the 
gold,  the  remaining  part  of  the  alloy  may  retain  some 
cohesion,  so  that  the  form  of  the  object  may  remain, 
though  the  value  sharply  diminishes  or  becomes  zero. 
The  thing  works  out  mathematically.  And  in  every 
phase  and  aspect  it  spells  power — over  you,  Murchi- 
son ;  you  as  an  individual,  you  as  a  class." 

"You  mean  to  sandbag  me  into  enriching  you?" 
And  the  billionaire,  flushing  slightly,  clenched  his  bony 
fist. 

"Not  at  all ;  not  the  least  in  the  world !  I'm  simply 
giving  you  the  chance  to  avert  ruin  for  yourself  and 
yours  by  granting  one  demand.  I  might  make  a  dozen, 
looking  toward  social  justice,  but  that  would  possibly 
complicate  matters.  So  I'll  be  reasonable  and  go  at 
the  worst  deviltry  right  off — at  the  thing  I  hate  more 
bitterly  than  you  hate  poverty  itself.  Just  one  de 
mand,  get  me?" 

"What— what  is  it,  d:         J  a  - .'' 

"This !"  And  Storm  stood  up.  He  crossed  his 
arms,  gazed  down  at  Murchison,  and  paused  to  weigh 
his  words. 

"Just  this:  International  Disarmament,  the  Aboli 
tion  of  War,  World-Peace.  One  demand,  in  three 
aspects.  One ! 

"War  must  cease.  You  understand  me?  War  must 
cease!99 


CHAPTER  VIII 

CLASHING    WILLS 

FOE  a  minute  the  billionaire  sat  staring  at  the 
scientist  with  uncomprehending  astonishment. 

He  had  expected,  perhaps,  some  crushingly  heavy  de 
mand  for  money,  property,  position;  and  he  had  been 
more  than  half  prepared  to  grant  it,  if  at  all  in  reason. 
But  this  turn  of  affairs  utterly  disconcerted  him.  It 
lay  as  far  outside  his  concepts  and  his  understanding 
as  a  request  for  the  moon  would  have  lain. 

So,  for  the  space  of  a  dozen  breaths,  he  merely  sat 
blinking  at  Storm,  unable  to  formulate  even  a  ragged 
scrap  of  answer. 

"Well,  how  about  it?"  demanded  the  scientist, 
thoughtfully  studying  the  long,  white  ash  which  had 
formed  on  the  end  of  his  Mindanao.  "It  is  yes,  or  no  ?" 

"Wha — what  d'you  mean?"   stammered  Murchison. 

"To  put  an  end  to  organized  murder,  yes,  just  that," 
answered  Storm  quietly.  "I  intend  to  apply  a  styptic 
to  society,  to  stop  the  flow  of  human  blood.  The 
world,  through  you  and  yours,  is  all  one  reek  of  rotten 
ness,  graft,  cruelty  and  barbarism.  And,  out  from 
among  them  all  stands  preeminent  the  supreme  sav 
agery  of  War! 

"War  is  Hell.  That's  a  bromide,  but  it's  true. 
Satan  himself,  the  real  old  fire-and-brimstone  Satan 

ei 


62  THE  GOLDEN  BLIGHT 

of  past  generations,  never  invented  anything  more 
stupidly  savage  than  this  idea  of  killing  human  beings 
for  the  enrichment  of  the  few.  War,  private  or  public, 
is  all  murder — and  it's  got  to  stop!" 

Murchison  gasped,  inarticulately;  and  now,  fully 
convinced  of  Storm's  insanity,  cast  a  measuring  glance 
at  the  door.  The  scientist  understood. 

"Don't  be  alarmed,"  said  he.  "I  haven't  the  slightest 
disposition  to  harm  you,  personally.  You  already  have 
my  promise.  And  beside,  what  good  would  it  do? 
You're  far  too  useful,  Murchison,  to  be  molested  by 
any  direct  reprisals.  I  need  you  in  my  campaign  of 
War  against  War.  *My  campaign  to  stop  this  inter 
national  game  of  'Beggar  My  Neighbor,'  otherwise 
known  as  increasing  armaments.  To  limit,  then  dimin 
ish,  and  finally  entirely  do  away  with  armies,  navies, 
and  all  that  sort  of  thing.  And,  in  a  word,  to  intro 
duce  an  era  of  peace,  in  place  of  the  present  era  of 
growling,  fang-showing  brutality.  Does  my  idea  con 
vey  any  meaning  to  your  gold-sodden  intellect?" 

"War?"  gulped  the  billionaire.  "What— what  do 
you  mean?  Stop  war?  You  want  me — me — to — ?" 

"To  get  together  with  the  other  vultures  that  fatten 
on  the  world's  battle-fields,  and  end  the  whole  infernal 
saturnalia  of  carnage.  In  a  word,  stop  murdering!" 

Murchison  gasped. 

"Are — you  sane?  And  in  earnest?"  he  managed  to 
articulate. 

"Never  more  so!     Absolutely!" 

"Had — had  you  asked  for — " 

"I  know — money!  Arrrh!  Money,  j-  \.imoney! 
Is  that  all  you  can  think  of,  money,  you  gold-grubber? 


CLASHING  WILLS  63 

I  fancy  you'll  have  something  else  to  occupy  your 
attention,  before  very  long!  Now  then,  what's  your 
answer?  Are  you  going  to  do  my  bidding,  or  not? 
Come !  Speak  up !" 

"This  man's  a  plain  lunatic !  He's  mad,  insane,  clear 
through,  irresponsible  and  highly  dangerous !"  was  IVIur- 
chison's  secret  thought ;  but  he  made  shift  to  parry  for 
time. 

"Why,"  exclaimed  he,  blinking  nervously,  as  was  his 
habit,  "why,  what  in  the  world  can  /  do  about  all  these 
things?  War,  I  admit,  is  a  regrettable  affair;  and 
armaments  are  tremendous  drains  on  national  re 


sources — " 


"And  tremendous  revenue-producers  for  the  manu 
facturers  of  armor-plate,  guns,  ammunition,  clothing, 
canned  carrion  and  cheap  coffins !"  interjected  Storm. 
"Just  what  part  of  your  fortune  had  its  origin  in  any 
of  these  industries,  eh?  How  much  influence  have  you 
ever  exerted  on  the  press,  to  stimulate  militarism,  so 
you  could  sell  your  rotten — ?" 

"But,  for  the  present,  they're  necessary  evils,"  the 
billionaire  interrupted,  raising  his  voice.  "War  begets 
patriotism,  too,  and  brings  out  all  that's  best  in  the 
nation — " 

"Kills  the  flower  of  our  youth,  you  mean;  wakes  the 
ape  and  tiger,  in  man,  and  sets  the  cup  of  blood  to 
our  lips!  No,  no,  Murchison,  your  specious  patriotic 
bunk  won't  go,  any  more.  It  may  fool  the  Henry 
Dubbs,  and  all  that;  but  you're  talking  to  a  man  who 
knows,  now — one  who  understands  the  game,  flag-wav 
ing,  brass  bands  and  all — one  who  is  wise  to  the  way 
our  bovs  are  tricked  to  the  trenches  and  death,  while 


64  THE  GOLDEN  BLIGHT 

you  fellows  sit  secure  in  Wall  Street,  cutting  cou 
pons! 

"You  can't  put  any  of  your  mouldy  old  platitudes 
over  on  me.  I  know  the  whole  matter  from  A  to  Z, 
and  I  demand  the  cessation  of  murder — murder  of  the 
working  class  for  the  benefit  of  the  shirking  class. 
Understand?" 

Murchison  pondered  a  moment,  or  seemed  to.  Then 
said  he : 

"Even  admitting  you're  quite  right,  what  can  I  do? 
War?  How  can  /  abolish  it?  Why  do  you  come  to 
me  with  your — your  Utopian  demand?" 

"Why?  Simply  because  you're  the  richest  man  in 
the  world,  a  man  of  incalculable  influence,  whose  every 
word — mostly  buncombe — is  snatched  by  the  press  and 
hurled  to  the  ends  of  the  earth  before  it  has  time  even 
to  get  cold.  Because  you're  the  representative  head 
and  spokesman  of  the  whole  Capitalist  System,  its 
focus  and  personification  in  millions  of  minds.  Be 
cause — " 

"You  misunderstand!"  interjected  Murchison,  his 
face  livid.  He  started  forward  in  his  chair.  "7  have 
no  part  in — " 

"Silence!  I  know  all  about  it,  and  the  people  are 
beginning  to  know,  as  well.  With  the  radical  press 
spreading  the  facts  before  them,  day  in  and  day  out, 
do  you  imagine  you  and  yours  are  going  to  be  im 
mune,  forever?  It  is  flinging  the  truth  broadcast  to 
millions,  every  week — and  you,  cowering  on  your  estate, 
believe  you  can  still  hide  behind  the  mask?  Only  a 
madman,  drunk  with  power  and  gold,  could  entertain 
such  nonsense !  I  tell  you,  Murchison,  you're  the  chief 


CLASHING  WILLS  65 

sinner  of  the  whole  unspeakable  lot;  and  you're  the 
man  I've  picked  to  help  me  right  the  wrong! 

"I  may  involve  others,  later.  Probably  shall.  But 
you're  the  one  I've  chosen  to  begin  with.  You  have 
vast  power,  and  that  power  I'm  going  to  use,  both 
economic  and  political.  And — " 

"My  dear  sir!  I  never  held  an  office  in  my  life!  I 
take  no  part  in  politics — beyond  voting,  like  any  good 
citizen.  I'm  a  business  man,  pure  and  simple — " 

"Impure  and  complex,  you  mean,"  interrupted 
Storm,  throwing  away  the  butt  of  the  smoked-out  Min 
danao.  "It's  quite  true  you  never  have  held  office, 
but  you  pull  the  strings  and  make  the  marionettes 
dance  your  tune.  I  know  all  about  what  you  think 
you  are;  and  I  know  what  you  are!  Your  word 
is  the  most  important  word  to-day  in  the  affairs  of 
this  country ;  not  as  a  political  idol,  or  a  holder  of  high 
office,  or  openly  as  an  executive  head,  but  in  a  more  vital 
sense  altogether,  behind  the  scenes. 

"All  thinking  men  realize,  to-day,  that  gold  really 
rules.  That  gold,  not  the  public,  makes  and  administers 
the  laws.  And  that  in  every  other  civilized  country  the 
same  condition  exists. 

"You  and  your  class,  Murchison,  whether  in  the 
United  States  or  in  Europe,  constitute  the  real  govern 
ment.  This  so-called  'People's  Rule'  bunk  is  all  rub 
bish,  and  you  know  it !  Of  course,  there  are  elected  offi 
cials  and  all  that ;  but  with  the  exception  of  certain  ones 
whom  I  won't  name,  but  whom  you  know  right  well,  be 
cause  they  carry  red  cards  in  their  pockets,  they're  all 
so  many  puppets ! 

"They  move  and  make  noises  and  wave  their  little 


66  THE  GOLDEN  BLIGHT 

arms  and  go  through  the  motions  of  governing,  but  you 
know  infernally  well  who  pulls  the  strings.  You  know, 
and  so  do  I,  and  there's  no  use  trying  to  hand  out  any 
hot  air  about  it.  If  you  and  your  gang  say:  'No 
war!'  why,  war  ceases.  That's  all.  Now  you  under 
stand  ! 

"Are  you  going  to  say  it,  and  climb  down,  like  Davy 
Crockett's  coon?  Or  are  you  going  to  make  me  fight 
—and  win  from  you,  by  means  you  already  know  some 
thing  of?  How  about  it,  Murchison?  What's  doing?" 
^  The  billionaire  got  up  stiffly  from  the  huge  chair. 
For  a  moment  he  faced  Storm;  then,  with  a  poisonous 
grimace,  began  to  pace  the  floor.  Storm  watched  him 
with  amused  interest. 

"How  about  it?"  he  repeated.     "Is  it  yes,  or  no?" 

Murchison  whirled  on  him,  livid  with  sudden  passion. 

"So  it's  a  Frankenstein  game,  eh?     See  what  I  get 

now  for  having  taken  you  up  and  patronized  you  and 

made   much   of   you— given   you   money   for    research 

and—" 

"There,  there,  cut  that  right  out,  Murchison !"  com 
manded  Storm.  "We're  past  exchanging  personalities. 
Bo  you,  or  don't  you,  understand  me?  Do  you 
give  in?" 

Beside  himself  with  rage,  the  billionaire  raised  his 
cane,  which  he  still  held  gripped,  and  shook  it  violently 
at  Storm. 

"You'll  be  in  jail,  sir,  in  the  penitentiary,  first  thing 
you  know,  sir !  With  twenty  years  to  serve !  Twenty? 
Ha !  A  life  sentence !" 

"On  what  charge,  please?     Disturbing  the  graft?" 

"Never  you  mind  the  charge;  we'll- land  your 


CLASHING  WILLS  67 

"True  enough,  gold  certainly  can  tip  the  scales  of 
justice,  I  admit,"  answered  Storm  thoughtfully. 
"Only,  this  time,  it  won't  work.  Things  aren't  going 
to  happen  according  to  schedule.  Up  to  now,  you've 
been  able — you  and  your  bunch  of  silk-stocking  bur 
glars — to  'plant'  any  kind  of  evidence  you've  needed, 
against  anybody  you've  wanted  to  get.  You  and  your 
private  detective  agencies  and  all  the  rest  of  the  outfit, 
with  their  dictagraphs  and  perjury  and  strong-arm 
work  and  gun-men  have  been  able  to  get  away  with 
anything  and  everything.  Your  'frame-ups'  and 
'jobs'  have  usually  worked  to  a  T,  but  they  won't 
touch  me.  You  won't  start  anything  on  me,  Mur- 
chison,  in  the  good,  old,  capitalist  way.  Why  not? 
Because  you  won't  dare,  that's  all. 

"I'm  not  an  ordinary  agitator  who  can  be  suppressed 
and  hustled  off  behind  the  bars  on  the  first  charge  that 
comes  convenient.  I'm  a  scientist,  aching  for  a  fight; 
and  in  the  hollow  of  my  hand  I  hold  you  and  yours, 
absolutely.  Even  though  I  know  you'd  like  to,  you 
can't  send  me  to  the  Pen,  nor  to  the  electric  chair.  At 
every  turn  I  can  and  will  checkmate  you,  Murchison — 
so  be  warned  in  time.  Be  good !" 

"I'll  see  you  in  Hell  first!" 

"Doubtless  you'll  be  there,  but  I  decline  to  make 
any  appointment.  All  I  want  to  impress  on  you  is 
the  fact  that  you'd  better  crawl  down  while  the  crawl 
ing  is  good.  The  first  hand  that's  laid  on  me,  the  first 
charge  that's  brought,  will  be  the  signal  for  a  slashing, 
smashing  center-drive  right  through  the  house  of  cards 
that  you  call  your  wealth,  your  property,  your  system. 
You  and  your  whole  class  will  be  involved.  It  won't 


68  THE  GOLDEN  BLIGHT 

touch  the  workers,  for  they've  got  no  gold;  they've  got 
nothing  to  lose.  But  you — what  it  will  do  to  you  will 
be  a  plenty ! 

"I  tell  you,  Murchison,  your  money  and  your  power 
will  run  through  your  fingers  like  water.  I'll  drain 
you  people  so  dry,  Murchison,  and  play  such  tricks 
with  credit  and  finance,  and  banking  and  government, 
and  the  whole  business,  that  you  won't  ever  know  what 
struck  you. 

"So,  look  out!" 

And  Storm  held  up  an  admonishing  finger,  as  though 
talking  to  an  erring  son. 

"Your  only  chance  of  safety  is  to  give  in  to  me  and 
leave  me  unmolested.  Processes  are  at  work  this  very 
minute,  which  I  am  controlling.  If  I'm  taken  away 
from  them — God  help  you ! 

"In  the  smash  that  would  follow,  Black  Friday  by 
comparison  would  be  a  picnic.  Your  whole  hellish 
system  will  cave  in!  Lucky  for  you  and  your  kind, 
Murchison,  if  Red  Revolution  doesn't  raise  its  head, 
the  barricades  go  up  on  Broadway,  and  the  guillotine 
arise  in  Wall  Street  to  do  its  bloody  work  with  you  and 
yours !" 


CHAPTER    IX 


WAR 


SILENCE  followed,  a  silence  so  thick  that  the  breath 
ing  of  the  two  men  grew  audible — that  of  Storm,  even 
and  regular;  Murchison's,  hurried  and  feverish. 

Outside,  the  dull  and  vibrant  hum  of  the  city's  life 
droned  on  and  on  incessantly.  A  hawker's  cry  rose 
from  the  street ;  half -heard,  the  Sixth  Avenue  L  clanked 
dully. 

Then  Murchison,  with  a  face  such  as  you  would 
hardly  want  to  look  at  twice,  spoke  huskily  and  with 
a  tone  commingled  of  craft,  hate,  and  consuming  fear. 

"See  here,  Storm,"  said  he.  "Why  not  come  right 
put  in  this  matter,  and  really  tell  me  what  you  want? 
You  aren't  planning  to  smash  things  right  and  left, 
and  bring  Hell  on  earth,  just  for  the  sake  of  a  Utopian 
attempt  to  stop  warfare.  Your  campaign  itself  would 
bring  anarchy  and  bloodshed  far  worse  than  the  evils 
you  complain  of.  Why,  you'd  have  absolute  chaos,  if 
you  made  good  your  threats!  You'd  have  panic,  un 
employment,  mob-rule,  rapine,  arson  and  red  murder! 
No,  no,  I  can't  believe  you  mean  what  you  say.  You've 
got  some  other  game  up  your  sleeve.  What  do  you 
really  want,  now  ?  In  plain  English,  let's  have  it !" 

Gone  now  all  Murchison's  veneer  of  culture.  Gone 
the  language  of  diplomacy.  Reduced  to  its  lowest 


70  THE  GOLDEN  BLIGHT 

terms,  his  bartering.  All  his  life  accustomed  to  buying 
what  he  wanted,  now  he  still  tried  the  same  tactics  of 
raw  purchase. 

"What's  your  price,  Storm?  Name  it,  and  let's 
dicker.  How  much?  A  million?  Two,  three,  five?  Or 
is  it  political  power  you  want — or  reputation?  How 
about  a  governorship,  or  a  seat  in  Congress?  Any 
thing  doing  on  those  terms?  If  not,  there's  the  Sen 
ate,  you  know ;  surely,  you  can't  be  aiming  higher  than 
that!" 

The  old  man's  tongue,  well-loosened  now,  clattered 
freely. 

"I  might  even  manage  a  seat  on  the  Supreme  Court 
bench,  if  you're  insistent,"  continued  he.  "But  I  don't 
believe  you  care  for  politics,  after  all.  Something 
good  in  the  way  of  a  traveling  scholarship,  unlimited 
time  and  stipend  very  generous,  would  be  nice,  now, 
wouldn't  it?  Or  a  big  professorship — or  even  the  pres 
idency  of  a  university  built  especially  for  you — or — " 
"Stop  there!"  cried  Storm.  "You're  on  the  wrong 
track  altogether.  There's  positively  no  use  in  your 
offering  anything  but  just  the  one  thing  I  want  and 
mean  to  have.  As  I've  already  told  you,  I'm  working 
for  the  abolition  of  the  system  and  of  war.  War,  or 
ganized  murder,  mass  butchery.  I  don't  believe  in  it; 
I  hate  it;  and  I'm  going  to  put  an  end  to  it." 

"But,  you  unpatriotic  hound!"  croaked  the  billion 
aire,  "war  is  sometimes  right,  often  necessary.  The 
god  of  battles  is  a  just  god!  Have  you  no  patriotic 
pride?  No  sense  of  national  honor?  No  thrill  of 
reverence  for  the  flag,  the  army,  the  navy,  the  defend 
ers  of  our  liberty  and — " 


WAR  71 

"Sh-h-h!  There,  there,  that's  enough!  That's  all 
very  well  for  schoolboys ;  but  you  know  as  well  as  I  do, 
Murchison,  that  war  is  a  big  killing  game  for  profits — 
the  wholesale  murder  of  the  working-class  in  defense 
of  the  interests  of  the  ruling  class. 

"The  exploiting  elements  of  mankind  have  for  ages 
profited  from  man's  inherent  instinct  to  fight.  D'you 
know  what  George  Bernard  Shaw  says  about  that  in 
fernal  tendency?  No?  I'll  tell  you." 

He  stepped  to  his  book-case,  jerked  "Man  and  Super 
man"  off  the  top  shelf,  thumbed  it  over  and,  turning  to 
Murchison,  read  the  Devil's  speech  to  Don  Juan  and 
Ana: 

And  is  man  any  the  less  destroying  himself  for  all  this  boasted 
brain  of  his?  Have  you  walked  up  and  down  upon  the  earth 
lately?  I  have;  and  I  tell  you  that  in  the  arts  of  life,  man  invents 
nothing;  but  in  the  arts  of  death  he  outdoes  nature  herself,  and 
produces  by  chemistry  and  machinery  all  the  slaughter  of  plague, 
pestilence,  and  famine.  The  peasant  I  tempt  to-day  eats  and 
drinks  what  was  eaten  and  drunk  by  the  peasants  of  ten  thousand 
years  ago;  and  the  house  he  lives  hi  has  not  altered  as  much  in  a 
thousand  centuries  as  the  fashion  of  a  lady's  bonnet  in  a  score 
of  weeks.  But  when  he  goes  out  to  slay,  he  carries  a  marvel  of 
mechanism  that  lets  loose  at  the  touch  of  his  finger  all  the  hidden 
molecular  energies,  and  leaves  the  javelin,  the  arrow,  the  blow 
pipe  of  his  fathers  far  behind.  In  the  arts  of  peace  man  is  a 
bungler.  I  have  seen  his  cotton  factories  and  the  like,  with 
machinery  that  a  greedy  dog  could  have  invented  if  it  had  wanted 
money  instead  of  food.  I  know  his  clumsy  typewriters  and 
bungling  locomotives  and  tedious  bicycles;  they  are  toys  com 
pared  to  the  Maxim  gun,  the  submarine  torpedo-boat.  There  is 
nothing  in  man's  industrial  machinery  but  his  greed  and  sloth; 
his  heart  is  in  his  weapons! 

He  paused,  slapped  the  book  down  on  the  table  and 
looked  at  Murchison. 


72  THE  GOLDEN  BLIGHT 

"Precisely!"  jubilated  Murchison.  "There  you  have 
it !  It's  not  our  fault !  Men  love  to  fight — they  want 
to,  for  the  sake — " 

"You  dry  up,  will  you,  till  I'm  through?  It  is  your 
fault;  your  rotten,  damnable  fault,  you  men  of  'light' 
and  'leading,'  and  all  that  kind  of  bunk!  What  have 
you  done  to  stop  the  slaughter?  Anything?  Have 
you  or  your  banqueting  peace-societies,  or  your  Hague 
Conferences  or  your  canting  clergymen  and  bishops, 
ever  really  waded  in  and  stopped  a  war  ? 

"I  guess  not !  You've  seen  in  that  instinct  a  chance 
to  make  money.  You've  aided  and  abetted  it,  per 
fected  the  tools  of  murder,  bidden  your  fat  bishops 
pray  for  victory,  and  created  the  warlike  integument 
of  capitalist  society,  glorified  militarism,  and  beaten 
the  tom-tom,  you  and  yours  have !  What  for  ?  For 
profits,  infernal  hypocrites  and  scoundrels  that  you  are ! 

"You  know  as  well  as  I  do  that  nine-tenths  of  all  wars 
are  merely  disguised  pirate  expeditions  for  land,  or 
trade,  or  some  other  form  of  loot. 

"But  the  odd  part  of  it  is,  Murchison,  that  the  peo 
ple  who  get  the  loot  never  do  the  fighting!  They  stay 
at  home  and  cut  coupons,  while  the  fellows  without  a 
share  of  stock  or  a  bond  to  their  name,  they  stop  all 
the  bullets.  And  the  newspapers  play  up  the  flag! 
And  the  chaps  like  you  rake  in  another  wad.  And  the 
burial-squads  work  overtime,  while  Uncle  Sam  pays 
the  bills — which  he  later  hands  along  to  Mr.  Ordinary 
Citizen.  Great  game,  what?  Oh,  a  beaut!  But  it's 
going  to  stop  before  long,  and — " 

"What  rot !"  snapped  the  billionaire.  "If  you  knew 
the  first  principles  of  national  expansion — " 


WAR  73 

"S-h-h-h!"  And  Storm,  picking  up  a  scrap-book 
from  the  table,  opened  it  where  a  slip  of  paper  marked 
a  paragraph. 

"Listen  to  how  Dr.  William  J.  Robinson  describes 
one  little  incident  of  the  Pan-European  war: 

Whoever  has  seen  the  Belgian  refugees  run  for  their  lives 
from  their  invaded  and  burning  towns  and  villages  will  never 
forget  the  spectacle.  Old  and  young,  men,  women  and  children, 
all  were  running.  Terror  was  depicted  on  the  faces  of  all.  After 
the  flight  from  Antwerp  the  physicians  at  Maastricht  had  in  one 
day  to  treat  over  300  women  who  during  that  flight  had  had 
miscarriages.  The  women  belonged  to  all  classes  of  society — 
rich,  middle  class  and  poor.  Just  imagine,  if  you  can,  the  horror 
of  the  situation — what  the  exhaustion,  what  the  physical  suffering, 
must  have  been  to  bring  on  an  abortion,  and  what  terror,  what 
horrible  sufferings,  these  women  must  have  experienced  if,  in 
spite  of  the  hemorrhage,  and  the  pain  induced  by  the  abortion, 
they  had  to  run  and  run  without  stopping! 

"Fine  business,  eh?"  gibed  Storm,  turning  a  few 
pages.  "Here's  what  Zola  says  about  it.  You  know 
his  'Debacle,'  surely?  Listen! 

At  Sedan,  some  lay  face  downward  with  their  mouths  in  a  pool 
of  blood;  others  had  bitten  the  ground  till  their  mouths  were  full 
of  dry  earth;  others  formed  a  confused,  intertwined  heap  of 
mangled  limbs  and  crushed  trunks.  .  .  .  Great  livid  clouds 
drifted  athwart  the  sun  and  obscured  his  light,  bearing  with 
them  an  intolerable  stench  of  soot  and  blood.  .  .  .  Men  were 
dismounted  as  if  torn  from  the  saddle  by  the  blast  of  a  tornado, 
while  others,  shot  through  some  vital  part,  retained  their  seats 
and  rode  onward  in  the  ranks  with  vacant,  sightless  eyes.  .  .  . 
After  that  the  road  led  along  the  brink  of  a  little  ravine  .  .  . 
into  which  an  entire  company  seemed  to  have  been  blown  by  the 
fiery  blast.  The  ravine  was  choked  with  corpses,  a  landslide,  an 
avalanche  of  maimed  and  mutilated  men,  bent  and  twisted  in 
an  inextricable  tangle,  who  with  convulsed  fingers  had  caught  at 
the  yellow  clay  of  the  bank.  A  dusky  flock  of  ravens  flew  away, 
croaking  noisily;  and  swarms  of  flies,  attracted  by  the  odor  of 
fresh  blood,  were  buzzing  over  the  bodies  and  returning  incessantly 


74  THE  GOLDEN  BLIGHT 

Storm  paused,  and  eyed  the  billionaire. 

"Nice,  eh?"  said  he  witheringly.  "But  it  brought 
Prussia  several  train-loads  of  French  gold  at  last,  you 
remember.  Train-loads,  mind  you!  Which  gold  was 
hoarded  away  in  the  Kaiserhof  Schloss,  I  understand, 
and  was  used  in  the  Big  War.  Oh,  grand !" 

Murchison  winced,  and  thrust  out  a  hand  in  protest. 

"That's  past  history !"  exclaimed  he.  "Modern  war 
fare  is  humane  and  scientific.  We  have  asepsis,  now, 
and  the  Red  Cross,  and  all  that.  It's  all  bad  enough,  I 
admit;  but  not  as  bad  as  you  try  to  make  out.  The 
world's  outgrowing — " 

"Oh,  it  is,  is  it?  Really,  Murchison,  you  amuse  me! 
Perhaps  you  stopped  reading  the  papers,  during  the 
Big  War?  Perhaps  you  never  heard  of  men  burned 
to  a  crisp  by  German  liquid  fire  or  gasping  out  their 
lives,  with  gangrened  lungs,  after  having  been  'gassed' ! 
Perhaps  you  never  knew  about  whole  companies  being 
shattered  to  bleeding  fragments  by  a  single  42-centi 
meter  shell,  or  about  soldiers  of  the  Allies  going  mad 
after  weeks  in  trenches  half-full  of  stinking  water, 
where  they  had  to  stay  with  rats  and  vermin  and  rot 
ting  fragments  of  human  flesh?  Go  a  little  farther 
back  and  recall  the  Japan-Russian  war. 

"Know  anything  about  that — you,  who  hold  $4,- 
000,000  worth  of  Trans-Siberian  Railway  bonds? 
You,  who  financed  that  last  $200,000,000  loan  to  Rus 
sia,  to  keep  things  going?  You,  who  to-day  draw  in 
terest  by  the  barrel  on  that  war?  Humane,  eh?  See 
here !" 

He  tossed  down  the  book  and  took  up  Kirkpatrick's 
"War,  What  For?"  from  the  table. 


WAR  75 

"Here,  on  page  83,"  said  he,  "you'll  note  the  hu 
manity  of  that  strictly  modern  affair: 

Countless  corpses,  covered  with  blood  lay  flat  in  the  grass  and 
between  the  stones.  .  .  .  Some  were  crushed  in  head  and  face, 
their  brains  mixed  with  dust  and  earth.  The  intestines  were 
torn  out,  and  blood  was  trickling  from  them.  .  .  .  The  bodies 
of  the  dead  built  hill  upon  hill;  their  blood  made  streams  in  the 
valley.  Shattered  bones,  torn  flesh,  flowing  blood,  were  mingled 
with  shattered  swords  and  split  rifles.  .  .  . 

"Enough!"    cried    Murchison,    paling    still    more. 

"Just  hear  what  Andreief,  in  'The  Red  Laugh,'  has 
to  say  about  another  of  those  profitable  Manchurian 
battles." 

"No!  No!  Enough!"  protested  the  billionaire, 
making  as  though  to  rise. 

"Sit  down  there  and  listen!"  dictated  Storm. 
"What?  You  run  a  slaughter-house  and  refuse  to 
learn  about  its  operation?  Keep  still,  now,  and  pay 
attention!  It  will  do  you  good  to  know  a  little — just 
a  very  little — one  per  cent.,  maybe — of  the  truth! 
Some  of  your  jeweled  miniatures,  your  Byzantine  gold 
placques,  your  reliquaries  and  Gobelin  tapestries,  and 
so  on,  certainly  were  bought  with  interest-money  drawn 
from  just  such  sources  as  these! 

"Here's  a  nice  bit,  now — the  storming  of  a  barb-wire 
entanglement.  Humane?  Very!  Good  business.  Fine! 

The  live-wire,  chopped  through  at  one  end,  cut  the  air  and 
coiled  itself  around  three  soldiers.  The  barbs  stuck  into  their 
bodies;  and,  shrieking,  the  soldiers  spun  round  in  frenzy.  No 
less  than  2,000  men  were  lost  in  that  one  entanglement.  Ten  or 
twelve  lines  of  wire  and  a  whole  labyrinth  of  pitfalls  with  stakes 
driven  at  the  bottom,  had  muddled  them  so  that  they  were  quite 
incapable  of  escape. 


76  THE  GOLDEN  BLIGHT 

Some,  like  blind  men,  fell  into  funnel-shaped  pits  and  hung 
upon  these  sharp  stakes.  .  .  .  They  were  crushed  down  by 
fresh  bodies,  and  soon  the  whole  pit,  filled  to  the  edges,  presented 
a  writhing  mass  of  bleeding  bodies,  dead  and  living.  Hundreds 
of  fingers,  like  the  claws  of  a  lobster,  gripped  them  firmly  by  the 
legs,  gouged  out  their  eyes,  and  throttled  them.  .  .  . 

A  loud  calling,  crying  groan  issued  from  the  distorted  mouths. 
.  .  .  All  those  dark  mounds  stirred  and  crawled  about  with 
outspread  legs,  like  half-dead  lobsters  let  out  of  a  basket. 

"Don't!     Don't!"  gasped  Murchison  faintly. 

"Sit  down !  I'm  only  giving  you  the  merest  tag-end 
and  trifle  of  the  whole,  I  tell  you.  Don't  you  want  to 
know  what  kind  of  wine-press  it  is  that  squeezes  out 
the  juicy  dividends  and  interest,  the  palaces  and  ban 
quets  and  extra  dry  for  you?  Hark,  now! 

The  train  was  full,  and  our  clothes  were  saturated  with  blood. 
.  .  .  Some  of  the  wounded  crawled  up,  themselves;  some  walked 
up,  tottering  and  falling.  One  soldier  almost  ran  up  to  us.  His 
face  was  smashed  and  only  one  eye  remained,  burning  wildly  and 
terribly.  He  was  almost  naked.  .  .  . 

The  ward  was  filled  with  a  broad,  rasping,  crying  groan;  and 
from  all  sides  pale,  yellow,  exhausted  faces,  some  eyeless,  some  so 
monstrously  mutilated  that  it  seemed  as  if  they  had  returned  from 
Hell,  turned  toward  us. 

I  was  beginning  to  get  exhausted,  and  went  a  little  way  off  to 
rest  a  bit.  The  blood,  dried  to  my  hands,  covered  them  like  a 
pair  of  black  gloves,  making  it  difficult  for  me  to  bend  my 
fingers — 

"Stop !  For  God's  sake,  stop !"  croaked  the  billion- 
aire.  "Give  me  a  drink — anything — brandy,  if  you 
have  it !" 

He  hid  his  face  in  his  hands  and,  for  a  moment,  sat 
there  sick  and  shaken. 

Storm  smiled  bitterly  at  him,  then  flung  down  the 
book  with  a  bang  on  the  table  and  went  to  pour  him  a 
good-sized  nip. 


WAR  77 

"Here,"  said  he  curtly. 

"Thanks— there,  that's  better !  Please— call  Thom 
as.  I — must  be  going  now." 

"All  right.  But  just  one  thing  more.  And  I  want 
you  to  remember  it,  Murchison,  and  think  about  it  hard. 
As  Kirkpatrick  says,  nowhere  on  all  that  battle-field, 
among  the  shattered  rifles  and  wrecked  cannon,  among 
all  the  broken  ambulances  and  splintered  ammunition- 
wagons;  nowhere  in  the  mire  and  mush  of  blood  and 
sand;  nowhere  among  the  carcasses  of  horses  and  men 
— nowhere  could  be  found  the  torn,  bloated,  fly-blown 
corpses  of  bankers,  bishops,  politicians,  capitalists,  and 
other  elegant  and  eminent  'very  best  people' !  You 
wouldn't  care  to  be  there  yourself — now,  would  you, 
Murchison?  Not  nearly  so  much  as  letting  the  other 
fellow  go,  the  thirteen-dollar-a-month  Johnny,  while 
you  wave  a  flag  and  cheer  and — clip  coupons!  Eh? 
How  about  it?" 

Murchison,  making  no  answer,  got  unsteadily  to  his 
feet  and  started  toward  the  door.  Not  defiant,  this 
time,  was  he.  Neither  did  he  threaten  or  bluster.  All 
the  come-back  had  gone  clean  out  of  the  man. 

Storm,  his  long  arms  folded,  watched  him  with  most 
mordant  scorn. 

"To-morrow  night,  Murchison,"  said  he,  by  way  of 
ultimatum,  "your  tremendously  swell  banquet  takes 
place  at  Edgecliff,  does  it  not?  Beauty  and  brains, 
high  finance,  and  literature,  and  art  will  all  be  repre 
sented — yes,  and  military  power,  too.  It  will  be  a 
representative  gathering  of  the  elect — the  'sons  of 
Mary,'  and  all  that  sort  of  thing.  And  there  will  be 
gold  and  jewels,  champagne  and  flowers,  music  and  the 


78  THE  GOLDEN  BLIGHT 

light  of  women's  eyes,  and  various  other  pleasant  and 
expensive  things. 

"I  hardly  expect  to  be  invited,  Murchison ;  but  I  shall 
be  there,  just  the  same.  If  not  in  the  body,  then  invis 
ibly,  with  powers  you  can  neither  understand  nor  meas 
ure — yet.  If  you  don't  come  to  my  terms  by  6  P.  M. 
to-morrow,  I  shall  consider  that  you  don't  care  to  co 
operate  with  me  in  ending  human  warfare.  Is  that 
understood? 

"Very  well.  Watch  your  table,  then,  at  10.30  sharp. 
That,  I  think,  will  be  a  proper  hour,  an  appropriate 
moment  of  conviviality,  for  the  'Mene,  Mene,  Tekel,'  to 
get  its  work  in.  Well?" 

Murchison's  lips  moved,  but  he  could  speak  no  word. 

Storm  smiled  again,  dryly. 

"After  that,  the  deluge,"  said  he  quite  calmly.  "I 
warn  you! 

"In  the  meantime,  as  you're  planning  out  the  ban 
quet,  which  will  cost  a  vast  fortune,  try  to  keep  in  mind 
a  picture  of  those  Manchurian  wire-tangles  and  those 
corpse-filled  pits,  with  the  rattling  hail  of  rifle-bullets 
sweeping  everything.  And  recall  Kirkpatrick's  ques 
tions  : 

"  'Wouldn't  it  be  a  strange  thing  to  see  a  banker,  a 
bishop,  a  railway  president,  a  coal  baron,  a  judge,  a 
senator,  all  hanging  on  stakes  in  a  pit,  with  scores  of 
other  men  piled  in  on  top  of  them — all  clawing,  kicking, 
cursing,  screaming,  bleeding,  dying — following  the  flag? 
Such  would  indeed  be  a  strange  and  interesting  sight, 
but  absolutely  impossible. 

"  'Naturally,  such  people  are  not  there  on  the  firing- 
line — up  where  bayonets  gleam,  sabers  flash,  flesh  is 


WAR  79 

ripped,  bones  cracked,  brains  dashed  out,  and  blood 
spattered.'     Never  in  this  world ! 

"Think  it  all  over,  Murchison.  There's  a  reason,  if 
you  can  find  it.  If  not,  I'll  help  you.  Good-by!" 

The  billionaire  was  gone.  As  the  door  closed  after 
him,  Storm  thrust  both  hands  deep  into  his  trousers- 
pockets,  let  his  head  sink,  and  for  a  moment  stood  there 
in  thought. 

Then  he  looked  up. 

"Come,  come!"  said  he  sharply.  "This  won't  do. 
The  big  banquet's  less  than  thirty-six  hours  off,  now. 
In  case  Murchison  doesn't  crawl  down,  my  work's  cut 
out  for  me,  good  and  plenty.  I've  got  to  get  busy  tun 
ing  up  my  radio jector  for  a  big  job.  The  den  for 
mine !" 

Five  minutes  later  he  was  striding  rapidly  toward  a 
little  sky-lighted  room  on  East  Twenty-sixth  Street, 
where  wonders  were  preparing  which  soon  were  destined 
to  startle  the  whole  world,  to  shake  it  to  its  deepest  core. 


CHAPTER    X 


BELSHAZZAR  S    FEAST 

IT  was  twenty  minutes  past  ten,  next  night,  when — 
the  sherbets,  the  ices  and  the  rare  imported  fruits  dis 
posed  of — Murchison's  guests  scented  with  satisfaction 
the  thick,  black  Arabian  coffee  which  the  butlers,  im 
personal  as  so  many  well-oiled  mechanisms,  served  in 
Imperial  Satsuma  cups  of  eggshell  thinness. 

Gold  dominant,  gold  triumphant,  gave  the  keynote 
of  that  marvelous  scene.  Gold  shone  in  ear- jewels,  in 
hair  ornaments,  in  chains  and  rings  and  bracelets  of 
the  women  there;  gold,  pale  or  ruddy,  on  their  warm, 
rounded  bosoms  and  bare  arms;  gold  in  the  massive 
medieval  service  on  the  damask  under  the  yellow  glow; 
gold  in  the  heavy,  two-handled,  ancient  kanthardi — th( 
Greek  wine-cups  from  the  ruins  of  Tyrrhens,  cups  onc< 
sacred  to  Bacchus,  but  now  filled  with  sparkling  Bur 
gundy. 

And  Murchison,  as  he  rose  to  speak,  felt  the  heai 
within  him  warm  at  sight  of  it.     He  felt  his  coura< 
and  defiance  rise  again.     For  everywhere  in  sight  wa; 
gold  and  power ;  and  the  menace  of  the  thing  he  f eare< 
obscured  by  the  present  and  by  the  cheering  glow  oi 
wine,  seemed  very  far  and  very  tenuous. 

This  moment,  the  billionaire  realized,  was,  in  a  way, 

the  culminant  instant  of  his  life. 

80 


BELSHAZZAB/S  FEAST  81 

He,  he  alone,  by  the  power  of  his  gold,  his  name  and 
dominance,  had  brought  this  scene  to  being.  He  alone 
had  here  amassed  these  treasures;  he  alone  had  here 
united  all  these  representatives  of  wealth,  of  science, 
art,  literature,  diplomatic  and  military  force. 

And  though  not  one  of  all  the  guests  would  have  ad 
mitted  it,  nor  he  himself  have  consciously  tolerated  the 
thought,  still  the  subconscious  realization  that  these 
men  and  women  at  this  banquet — which  would  have 
shamed  the  feasts  of  Nero  or  Lucullus — had  all  gath 
ered  here  to  do  him  homage,  dwelt  in  the  depths  of  his 
triumphant  soul. 

Homage  to  him  and  to  his  house ;  homage  to  his  wife, 
his  daughter ;  homage  to  the  vast  and  complex  power  of 
his  wealth  and  name.  Homage! 

Turned  toward  him,  as  in  a  golden  haze,  he  saw  the 
faces  of  these  supermen  and  women,  these  people  of  the 
topmost  pinnacle  of  human  life. 

Above  the  table,  the  embowering  orchids  and  wis 
tarias  (brought  from  the  Everglades  and  from  Japan 
for  this  one  evening)  sheltered  a  thousand  South  Amer 
ican  butterflies.  Lives  had  been  lost  along  the  head 
waters  of  the  Amazon  to  procure  them ;  dark,  obscure, 
unknown  lives. 

The  bill  for  flowers  alone  had  run  to  sixty  thousand 
dollars.  The  value  in  silver,  gold  and  glass  was  in 
calculable.  Four  thousand  yellow  English  lilies — lilies 
which  will  not  grow  in  America — had  been  imported  es 
pecially  for  the  banquet  at  two  dollars  apiece.  Mur- 
chison  had  had  special  guards  meet  the  ship,  to  see  that 
these  lilies  reached  Edgecliff  in  safety. 

The  whole  interior  of  the  mansion  had  been  trans- 


82  THE  GOLDEN  BLIGHT 

formed  into  a  flower  garden.  The  stairways  were  lanes 
of  multicolored  roses,  growing  in  magnificent,  genuine 
antique  Etruscan  pots,  each  one  worth  a  fortune  in 
itself. 

In  the  banquet-hall  a  pergola  had  been  constructed, 
over  which  the  various  blooms  were  trained;  the  effect 
was  that  of  an  open-air  garden — an  effect  heightened 
by  the  cleverly  devised  yellowish  lighting,  which  per 
fectly  simulated  natural  sunshine. 

The  whole  world,  civilized  and  savage,  had  paid  its 
tribute  to  the  decoration  and  the  menu. 

With  deep  content,  save  for  one  haunting  fear,  the 
billionaire  sighed.  What  more  could  man  desire? 
Power,  wealth,  adulation  all  were  his.  He  was  to  ad 
dress  these  folk ;  and  his  speech  was  to  be  flung  broad 
cast  for  the  world's  plaudits. 

The  orchestra  in  the  Italian  marble  balcony  at  the 
far  end  of  the  hall,  hushed  at  a  signal  from  the  major- 
domo,  now  grew  still.  Along  the  table  the  undertone 
of  voices  ceased.  Murchison,  sensing  a  dull  anxiety 
despite  himself,  glanced  at  the  wondrous  ivory  clock, 
with  golden  hands  and  numerals,  over  the  fireplace  at 
the  other  end  of  the  banquet-hall. 

"Ten-twenty-eight,"  thought  he,  angry  with  himself 
for  even  allowing  thoughts  of  Storm's  menace — idle 
threats  and  bluster  now  they  seemed — to  intrude  at 
such  a  time.  And,  with  a  smile,  he  spoke. 

"My  guests,  my  friends,"  said  he,  very  simply,  slowly, 
and  with  well-marked  pauses,  "you  know  as  well  as  I 
do  that  I  am  no  orator.  Whatever  slight  eloquence  I 
may  possess  is  that  of  deeds,  not  words.  Deeds  that 
have  brought,  I  dare  to  believe,  success,  as  the  world 


BELSHAZZAR'S  FEAST  83 

measures  it  and  weighs  such  things.  Deeds  that,  I 
hope,  have  worked  for  the  world's  welfare,  for  the  good 
of  all,  the  wider  spread  of  truth,  the  better  understand 
ing  between  gold  and  toil,  the  broadening — even  though 
in  a  slight  degree — of  human  life  and  human  progress." 

He  paused  and,  a  trifle  nervously,  glanced  at  the 
clock  again.  Its  hands,  actuated  from  Washington  by 
an  electric  current,  had  already  moved  another  minute. 

The  billionaire  frowned  slightly  and  cleared  his 
throat.  His  sharp  eye  caught  just  the  slightest  in 
voluntary  quiver  of  an  ironical  smile  on  the  lips  of  An 
drew  Wainwright,  half-way  down  the  table  on  his  right 
— Wainwright,  the  copper  czar.  Mentally  the  bil 
lionaire  made  a  note  of  this.  Even  though  he  consid 
ered  the  copper  man  his  best  friend,  yet  Wainwright 
should  smart  for  this,  and  soon. 

Half  suspiciously  he  looked  along  the  lines  of  faces 
turned  toward  his,  picking  up  one  celebrity  after  an 
other — Stephen  S.  Baker,  United  States  Secretary  of 
War;  Fouchard,  the  world's  foremost  aviator;  Gris- 
comb,  the  venerable  poet  and  litterateur;  the  painter, 
Crewe ;  Sir  Edward  Gray-Huber,  Britain's  ambassador ; 
Baron  Iwami,  of  Japan;  Bishop  Maxwell;  Professor 
Jassy  from  Rumania — and  many  others,  too;  in  all, 
perhaps,  the  most  imposing  body  of  representatives  of 
finance,  the  arts  and  letters,  science  and  military  power 
that  ever  yet  had  come  together  in  one  room  in  the 
New  World. 

Then  his  eyes  wandered  to  the  face  of  Mrs.  Murchi- 
son  at  the  other  end  of  the  table.  Not  even  her  im 
placable  social  poise  could  hide  the  fact  that  she  ob 
served  his  lack  of  ease,  and  was  agitated. 


84  THE  GOLDEN  BLIGHT 

He  caught  a  warning  frown  upon  her  brow.  The 
tilt  of  her  diamond-hasped  aigrette  spelled  "Look  out  I" 
And  with  a  slight  start  he  recalled  himself.  Again  he 
glanced  at  the  disquieting  clock.  Ten-thirty,  just! 
Softly  it  chimed. 

Murchison's  heart  seemed  to  stop  a  minute;  then  it 
gave  an  unsteady  bound.  But  the  billionaire  mastered 
himself.  He  took  a  deep  breath  and,  nervously  twist 
ing  his  mustache,  began  again : 

"Progress  is  dear  to  me,  my  friends,  as  to  you  all 
here  assembled.  For  its  sake,  even  the  burdens  of  great 
wealth  are  not  too  heavy  to  be  borne  in  patience." 

He  was  speaking  faster  now,  as  though  to  avert  the 
blow  which,  after  all,  he  felt  might  smite  him  even  at 
his  zenith  of  power. 

"The  possession  of  wealtji  is  no  sinecure.  It  is — 
that  is,  I  mean — it  lays  itself  open  to  the — er — the  at 
tacks,  the  envy  and  malice  of  the  lower  orders  of  so 
ciety.  We  men  and  women,  we  of  the  upper  class,  into 
whose  hands  Providence  has — er — "  (he  glanced  at  the 
bishop) — "has  entrusted  the  propertied  interests  of  the 
world,  we  must  bravely  bear  the  weight  of  it,  and — that 
is  to  say,  the  stewardship  rests  with  us." 

Lamely  he  concluded  the  sentence.  A  paralyzing 
stage-fright,  a  living  fear,  despite  all  his  efforts  to  for 
get  Storm,  had  now,  with  the  arrival  of  ten-thirty,  be 
gun  to  gain  upon  him. 

Very  warm  the  banquet-hall  was,  with  all  the  cluster 
ing  lights  and  the  presence  of  those  many  full-fed  hu 
man  beings.  Winter,  and  cold,  and  snow  outside,  all 
were  as  though  they  had  not  been;  yet  Murchison  felt 
chilled.  He  shivered  as  the  clock-hand  clicked  to 


BELSHAZZAR'S  FEAST  85 

ten-thirty-one,  and  on  his  forehead  a  fine  dew  of  sweat 
beaded  out. 

The  realization  that  several  of  his  guests  had  noted 
something  amiss  with  him,  that  here  and  there  along 
the  table  a  discreetly  mumbled  word  was  passing, 
stabbed  him  with  panic.  And,  fixing  his  gaze  on  the 
heavily  embossed  Greek  goblet  of  pure  gold  that  stood 
before  his  place,  he  hurried  on: 

"The  stewardship — yes — that  is  what  I  mean.  On 
us  devolves  the  task  of  protecting,  of  bulwarking  prop 
erty  rights,  of  suppressing  destructive  iconoclasm  and 
discontent,  of — of — " 

Murchison  floundered  hopelessly.  Into  his  mind  had 
just  flashed  an  incongruous  image.  One  course  of  the 
banquet  had  included  lobster;  and  now  the  words  of 
Storm  vividly  recurred  to  him: 

"All  those  dark  mounds  stirred  and  crawled  about, 
with  outspread  legs,  like  half-dead  lobsters  let  out  of  a 
basket." 

He  shuddered  slightly.  A  glint  of  the  warm  light, 
refracting  prismatically  athwart  the  champagne,  flung 
a  single  beam  of  red  into  his  eyes.  Blood !  That  wine 
was  blood,  squeezed  from  the  Manchurian  pits ! 

"Bah !"  scoffed  Murchison  to  himself,  passing  a  hand 
over  his  forehead  to  steady  his  nerves.  "What  rot! 
I've  been  taking  a  drop  too  much,  that's  certain. 
Now — what  was  I  saying?" 

He  reached  for  the  golden  beaker  and  took  a  swallow 
of  champagne.  Up  and  down  the  table,  more  and  more 
significant  looks  were  slyly  being  interchanged.  Some 
of  the  guests,  too,  shared  the  billionaire's  opinion  of  his 
own  condition;  a  diagnosis,  by  the  way,  entirely  in 


86  THE  GOLDEN  BLIGHT 

error.  The  Bishop,  quite  merry  with  wine,  grew  red 
in  the  face  with  suppressed  laughter.  Fouchard,  the 
French  aviator,  pressed  with  his  foot  the  slipper  of 
Griscomb's  daughter,  with  whom  he  had  already  begun 
a  cavalier  flirtation.  Secretary  Baker,  reputed  a  wit, 
leaning  most  courteously  toward  Lady  Gray-Huber, 
murmured  between  his  teeth: 

"Quite  superfluous,  was  it  not,  for  our  host  to  tell 
us  at  the  beginning  that  he  was  no  orator?" 

"The  old  fool's  drunk,  and  don't  know  it!"  growled 
Wainwright,  sotto  voce,  to  Mrs.  Crewe,  at  his  left. 

Mrs.  Murchison,  now  really  alarmed,  was  leaning 
forward,  her  eyes  fixed  on  her  husband.  Hildegarde, 
too,  flushed  and  anxious,  sat  watching  him  with  both 
her  hands  clasped  tightly  together. 

But  Murchison  saw  nothing  of  this.  For  his  dis 
tressed  eyes,  shifting  from  the  gold  cup  to  the  clock — 
now  marking  ten-thirty-two — and  back  again,  had 
sight  for  nothing  else. 

"It's  past,  the  time's  past,  and  nothing's  happened, 
damn  the  rascal!"  he  was  thinking,  a  sense  of  relief 
battling  with  his  fear.  "I  knew  it  was  all  bluff  and 
bluster  from  the  beginning." 

Then,  forcing  his  mind  back  to  the  interrupted  speech, 
humiliatingly  conscious  that — despite  all  his  guests' 
politeness — he  was  more  and  more  exciting  them  to 
covert  smiles,  again  he  faced  the  brilliant  group,  acme 
and  climax  of  the  system,  type  of  exploitation,  of  high 
florescence  fed  from  the  rich  subsoil  of  labor,  anguish, 
death. 

"So,  my  friends,"  he  hesitantly  continued,  "you,  who 
in  your  kindness  have  gathered  together  here  to-night 


BELSHAZZAR'S  FEAST  87 

to  partake — ah — to  share  my — er — my  humble  fare, 
I  pray  you,  harken  to  my  deep-grounded  opinion.  On 
you,  on  us  it  devolves — that  is,  you  understand,  the 
greater  privileges  we  enjoy  heighten  our  social  respon 
sibility. 

"It  behooves  us,  as  I  was  saying,  to  defend  the  rights, 
the  God-given  rights  we  possess.  We  must  stand 
shoulder  to  shoulder.  We  must  realize  our — er — 
sacred  trust — " 

"Which  trust,  Henry?  Oil,  beef,  mines  or  rail 
roads?"  murmured  Wainwright  quite  audibly,  draining 
his  glass. 

"With  all  our  power  we  must  meet  and  silence  the — 
er — the  calumniator,  the  malcontent,  the — h-m!  h-m! 
I  know  I  voice  your  sentiments  in  saying  that,  to  the 
last  ditch,  the  very  last  pit — ditch ;  I  mean,  we — " 

The  sentence  was  never  finished. 

For  just  as  the  clock  ticked  off  ten-thirty-three  a 
ghastly  change  flashed  over  Murchison's  face. 

His  eyes,  fixed  on  the  gold  kanthardus  before  him, 
grew  wild  and  staring.  They  bulged  with  an  expression 
of  unreasoning  horror.  His  hands  thrust  out,  as 
though  to  repel  some  fearful  menace.  Then  they 
grappled  the  edge  of  the  table  to  steady  him. 

And  with  a  single  cry,  "My  God!"  Murchison 
crouched  there,  ashen-pale  and  shaking,  his  bloodshot 
eyes  glaring  in  a  frightful  panic  at  the  massive  cup  of 
gold. 


I 


CHAPTER  XI 

THE    HANDWRITING    ON    THE    WALL 

DEAD  silence  followed. 

Muted  and  breathless,  the  guests  sat  statue-like,  a 
moment. 

Then  Mrs.  Murchison  cried: 

"What  is  it?    Are  you  ill? 

And  Hildegarde,  unmindful  of  conventions,  sprang 
up  and  ran  to  her  father's  side.  But  Jinyo  was  before 
her.  Already  he  had  Murchison  by  the  arm. 

"Sick,  sar?"  asked  he.     "I  help  you,  sar,  maybe?" 

"No — no!  It's  nothing — just  a  little  dizziness, 
that's  all,"  croaked  the  billionaire. 

"Father!     Father!" 

Hildegarde,  her  mind  distraught  with  visions  of  apo 
plexy,  once  more,  circled  his  shoulders  with  her  beauti 
ful  bare  arm.  Musicians,  servants,  guests  and  all 
waited  spellbound  with  astonishment  and  fear. 

"The — the  cup!"  gasped  Murchison,  pointing  at  it 
with  a  shaking  finger.  His  gaze  never  for  an  instant 
left  its  heavy  carvings.  «D— d— damn  it!  Look!9' 

His  voice  broke,  in  a  kind  of  wail.  Here  and  there 
men  and  women  were  standing  up,  in  panic.  Mad? 
Had  the  billionaire  gone  suddenly  mad?  Or  was  he 
only  drunk? 

"The  cup!     The  cup,  I  say!" 

88 


HANDWRITING  ON  THE  WALL       89 

There,  already  plainly  visible  to  him,  a  great  gray 
blotch  had  spattered  all  across  the  figure  of  a  dancing 
satyr  from  whose  horns  one  of  the  handles  sprung. 
And,  as  he  looked,  the  gray  blight  spread,  rapidly  con 
fluent,  just  as  it  had  been  upon  the  double-eagles  in  the 
library. 

All  at  once  a  little  cry  sounded  near  the  far  end  of 
the  table — a  cry  in  a  woman's  voice: 

"Oh!     My  bracelet!      What's  the  matter?" 

And,  as  though  to  echo  it,  Crewe,  the  artist,  ex 
claimed  : 

"By  Jove!  I  say — "  And  from  his  plate  picked 
up  a  diamond  that  had  fallen,  clinking,  there.  "What 
the  deuce?" 

Griscomb  caught  at  his  shirt-front. 

His  gold  studs  had  vanished;  now  the  dress-shirt 
gaped  wantonly. 

Fouchard  clapped  a  hand  to  his  jaw,  where  all  of  a 
sudden  two  gold  teeth  had  crumbled  to  bitter,  acrid  ash. 

Two  or  three  chairs  scraped.  Mrs.  Murchison,  per 
fectly  dazed,  sat  staring. 

"Come,  Jinyo — help  me!"  ordered  Hildegarde  in  a 
low  voice,  and  tried  to  draw  Murchison  away.  "He's 
ill  again."  Then  she  looked  up  appealingly. 

"Dr.  Roswell?"  said  she. 

The  doctor,  who  had  been  sitting  near  the  other  end 
of  the  table,  arose. 

"If  you  need  me — ?" 

"Oh,  Dr.  Roswell!"  cried  the  billionaire's  wife.  She 
caught  him  by  the  hand.  "This  has  happened  before — 
some  kind  of  unexplained  attack !  What  shall  we  do  ?" 

Roswell  started  toward  Murchison,  and  everybody 


90  THE  GOLDEN  BLIGHT 

stared,  some  standing,  some  still  in  their  places  at  the 
table.  But  now  Murchison  exclaimed  in  a  harsh,  dry 
tone: 

"No,  no !  You — you  don't  understand.  Sit  down, 
doctor — all  of  you,  please.  It's  nothing — nothing,  I 
tell  you !  I  beg  of  you,  be  calm !" 

And  Roswell  stood  there,  embarrassed,  utterly 
astounded,  knowing  not  what  to  do ;  bound  by  the  rules 
of  conventionality,  yet  fearing  much  for  Murchison's 
mental  status. 

All  up  and  down  the  table  fear  began  to  get  its  grip. 
Another  woman  cried  out,  as  her  magnificent  gold  chain 
went  gray,  then  turned  to  powder,  scattering  jewels  all 
down  her  dress  and  even  on  the  tablecloth. 

Sir  Huber  clapped  his  hand  to  his  breast,  where 
already  two  medals  were  crumbling. 

Professor  Jassy,  seeing  the  kanthardus  flecked  with 
white  before  his  place,  leaned  sharply  forward  with  a 
stifled  exclamation — an  oath  which,  being  in  Rumanian, 
nobody  understood. 

Three  or  four  more  guests,  panic-stricken,  stood  up 
and  clutched  at  their  disintegrating  cuff-links,  watch- 
chains,  ear-pendants,  bracelets  and  rings. 

But  of  all  this  Murchison  was  for  the  moment  quite 
unmindful.  For,  as  though  hypnotized,  breathless, 
agonized,  he  was  watching  the  swift  destruction  of  his 
priceless  treasures — worse,  the  crumbling  of  his  hopes, 
his  power,  Gold! 

Have  you  ever  seen  the  surface  of  a  mountain  pool, 
calm,  beautiful,  golden  in  the  sunset  glory,  suddenly 
kissed  by  some  wanton  breeze?  Have  you  seen  the 
irregular,  flying  touches  of  silver  as  the  freshening 


HANDWRITING  ON  THE  WALL       91 

wind  sweeps  over  the  still  surface — watched  the  cats- 
paws  flick  down,  hither  and  yon,  then  coalesce  and  run 
into  one  gray  and  troubled  whole? 

Thus  did  the  golden  chalice  transmute  as  the  billion 
aire  stared  at  it.  Swiftly,  inexorably,  the  Blight 
struck  in,  fastening  .itself  in  tiny,  rapidly  growing 
blotches,  till  right  before  his  eyes  the  cup  went  sil 
very,  then  dull — till,  even  as  Murchison's  trembling 
hand  stretched  out  to  seize  it,  the  thing  began  to 
crumble. 

And  all  at  once  the  farther  rim,  nearer  New  York, 
broke  down ;  and  over  it,  dissolving  the  friable  stuff  as 
water  melts  salt,  the  clear  champagne  began  to  trickle. 
Faster,  ever  faster,  it  flowed.  Suddenly  the  whole 
kanthardus  slumped. 

"Great  God!"  choked  Murchison,  recoiling. 

Where  the  wondrously  carven  beaker  had  stood  now 
lay  only  a  sodden  little  heap  of  wine-soaked  dust.  And 
in  a  quickly  widening  circle  the  champagne  soaked 
away  into  the  damask. 

"Oh,  look — look!"  cried  a  voice. 

Murchison  raised  his  wild  eyes. 

Down  the  table  Mrs.  Griscomb  was  pointing  at  a 
similar  ruin  close  beside  her  hand.  Other  cries  arose. 

And  now  more  than  half  the  cups  had  crumbled; 
and  out  of  the  disintegrating  fruit-dishes  were  rolling 
Normandy  apples,  hothouse  grapes,  Sicilian  oranges — 

"Na  mu  amida  Butsu!"  ejaculated  the  Baron  Iwami. 

The  gold  lace  of  his  broad  ribbon  had  turned  a  dirty 
gray;  the  Order  of  the  Rising  Sun,  upon  the  breast 
of  his  heavily  braided  official  coat,  had  vanished.  Only 
the  empty  red  bit  of  Japan  silk  that  had  held  it  re- 


92  THE  GOLDEN  BLIGHT 

mained,  pinned  to  his  uniform;  while  down  his  tunic  a 
little  line  of  ash  was  scattered. 

Iwami  arose,  and  with  a  darkening  face,  with  lids 
drawn  tight  across  his  narrowing,  angry,  suspicious 
eyes,  glared  defiantly  at  Murchison. 

Hissingly  he  drew  in  his  breath,  in  the  Japanese 
manner.  He  understood  nothing;  but  the  loss  of  the 
Rising  Sun  was  a  hideous,  an  irreparable,  catastrophe. 
More  easily  might  a  blow  full  in  the  face  be  pardoned 
and  atoned. 

"Come,  father,  come!"  urged  Hildegarde  again. 

And  now  Mrs.  Murchison  was  at  the  other  side  of 
the  billionaire.  Both  women,  with  Jinyo  and  the  doc 
tor,  were  trying  to  get  him  away  with  as  little  struggle 
and  confusion  as  possible. 

The  table  was  in  an  uproar.  More  chairs  slid;  one 
even  fell  over  backward,  clattering  on  the  polished 
floor. 

More  dishes  kept  crumbling,  and  the  stiff  table 
cloth  became  a  muck  of  wine  and  debris. 

The  servants,  all  dumb-stricken,  gaped  in  horror. 
Every  semblance  of  order,  of  convention,  was  going  by 
the  board.  Stifled  oaths,  cries,  unanswered  questions, 
all  intermingled.  Stark  panic  was  at  work. 

But  now  Murchison,  with  a  terrific  effort,  fought  off 
his  terror.  Up  came  his  head.  His  lips  twitched. 
He  began  to  speak. 

"Listen,  all  you  people.!"  cried  he.  "Silence!  You 
must  be  calm;  I'm  master  in  this  house!  I  must  have 
silence  here!"  And  a  lull  came. 

Pale  or  flushed,  angry  or  terrified,  all  harkened. 
The  ragged  line  of  people,  some  still  sitting  at  the 


HANDWRITING  ON  THE  WALL      93 

disordered    table,    some    standing,    waited    his    words. 

"You  don't  understand;  you  can't!"  cried  the  host, 
stretching  his  tremulous  hands  to  them.  "Something 
has  happened  here,  something  incredible,  something  in 
explicable — for  the  present.  That's  all.  Now — no, 
no,  don't  interrupt  me.  We  must  try  to  keep  cool. 
We  mustn't  lose  our  wits,  or  worse  will  come  of  it. 
We  must  be  calm.  Hear  me?  Understand? 

"Certain  phenomena  have  shown  themselves  among 
us.  Until  we  have  the  explanation  I  command  you  to 
be  calm,  to  keep  still.  In  no  other  way  can  we  save 
the  situation.  For  your  own  welfare  you  must  obey 
me! 

"If  one  word  of  this  gets  out  of  this  room — one  soli 
tary  word — terrible  results  may  follow.  I  can't  explain 
why  just  now,  but  the  fact  remains.  I  stake  my  life 
on  it.  Our  first  emergency  measure  is  this :  Silence! 

"You,"  and  with  a  terrible  face  he  whirled  upon  the 
servants,  "you  hear  and  mark  my  words !  If  any  hint 
of  this  becomes  known  outside,  through  any  of  you — 
look  out !  You  know  what  I  can  do,  and  will !  I  warn 
you!  Not  one  word! 

"As  for  my  guests,"  he  continued,  turning  again  to 
them,  "I  count  on  their  integrity  and  their  sense  of 
self-interest  to  lock  this  happening  away  in  their  minds 
and  hearts,  for  a  time — for  a  week  at  least — as  though 
nothing  whatever  had  occurred.  Nothing! 

"And  now  grant  me  a  supreme  favor ;  kindly  retire  at 
once.  You  shall  have  a  full  and  adequate  explanation 
within  a  very  few  da}^s.  Meanwhile,  any  loss  incurred 
here,  through  this  incredible  accident,  shall  be  made 
good  by  me — far  more  than  made  good. 


94  THE  GOLDEN  BLIGHT 

"Will  the  ladies  immediately  withdraw?  As  for  the 
gentlemen — I  am  going  to  assume  the  character  of 
chairman  of  an  emergency  committee  and  call  on  cer 
tain  ones  to  remain;  to  stay  an  hour  or  so,  for  urgent 
and  immediate  conference,  here,  right  in  this  room. 
The  others  will  accompany  the  ladies — and  remember, 
not  a  word  of  this  is  to  leave  my  house !" 

"Who  stays,  Murchison?"  spoke  up  Wainwright,  his 
drawling  voice  a  strange  contrast  to  the  billionaire's 
staccato  syllables.  "If  there's  anything  doing,  any 
excitement  in  prospect,  I'd  like  to  be  in  on  it,  you 
know." 

"I've  already  chosen  you,"  answered  Murchison. 
"You  stay!"  His  eyes  searched  the  double  line  of 
men's  faces,  as  already  the  women,  pale  and  wondering, 
began  to  drift  out  of  the  great  dining-hall. 

"Baron  Iwami,"  he  continued,  bowing  a  trifle,  "may 
I  have  the  honor  of  extending  my  invitation  to  you, 
also?" 

The  baron  returned  the  bow  with  chill  suavity. 

"I  serve  where  called,"  he  answered  in  impeccable 
English. 

"Thank  you.  That  makes  two.  I  must  have  six  in 
all,  including  myself.  I  name  Professor  Jassy,  the  Sec 
retary  of  War,  and  Sir  Grey-Huber.  There,  that  com 
pletes  the  total,  does  it  not?  No  objections?  No 
resignations?" 

The  designated  men,  by  a  murmured  word,  a  nod,  a 
gesture  of  acceptance,  signified  their  willingness. 

The  other  guests  stared  at  them  in  silence,  as  though 
already  some  supernal  knowledge,  some  wondrous  clar- 
•"'-TT  of  wisdom  had  fallen  on  them. 


HANDWRITING  ON  THE  WALL       95 

Then,  in  the  little  ensuing  pause,  Dr.  Roswell  spoke 
up,  in  a  deep,  grave,  measured  tone  : 

"Pardon  my  presumption,  Mr.  Murchison,  but  if 
you  can  use  another  man  of  science,  I  am  wholly  at 
your  disposal.  It's  a  frank  offer.  Accept  or  reject  it, 
as  you  wish.  I  shall  not  be  in  the  least  offended  if  you 
decline.  There's  no  personal  interest  involved,  because 
my  gold  is  strictly  a  minus  quantity.  I  speak  only  in 
the  interest  of  pure  science  and  pure  truth." 

Murchison  considered  a  moment.     Then  said  he : 

"That's  certainly  a  frank  offer  and  a  manly  state 
ment.  I  shall  answer  you  with  a  question,  equally  frank. 
Have  you  at  any  time  specialized  on  radio-activities, 
as,  for  example,  Professor  Jassy  has?" 

Roswell  smiled. 

"Such,"  said  he,  "is  a  prophet  in  his  own  country. 
My  three-volume  work  on  'The  Interrelations  of  Etheric 
Vibratory  Phenomena'  has  recently  been  translated  into 
half  a  dozen  European  languages,  and  also  Japanese. 
But  here  at  home — "  And  he  laughed  good-naturedly. 

Murchison  flushed  a  trifle. 

"I  beg  your  pardon,"  he  apologized.  "The  commit 
tee  will  consist  of  seven  members ! 

"And  now,"  he  added,  turning  to  the  men  who 
were  still  left  there  in  that  strangely  disordered  room, 
"now  all  who  are  not  on  the  committee  will  leave  us, 
at  once.  I  ask  this  in  the  cause  of  our  common  wel 
fare.  And — a  last  word — Silence!" 


CHAPTER    XII 

THE    VOICE    OF    THE    BLIGHT 

WHEN,  still  uncomprehending,  dazed,  speechless  save 
for  a  broken  exclamation  or  a  muttered  growl  of  dis 
pleasure,  the  guests  had  quitted  the  banquet-hall,  and 
the  musicians  and  servants — all  save  Jinyo — had  silent 
ly  followed  them  and  shut  the  huge  sliding-doors,  the 
chosen  six  drew  toward  Murchison  at  the  end  of  the 
table. 

"Now,  then,  if — "  began  the  Secretary  of  War ;  but 
Murchison  interrupted  him: 

"Got  a  pencil,  there?  A  pen?  Anything  to  write 
with?" 

"Here  you  go,  Murchison  J"  And  Wainwright 
handed  him  a  small,  silver-mounted  pencil. 

The  billionaire  seized  it  without  even  thanking  him. 

He  clutched  a  menu,  all  wet  with  spilled  champagne, 
and  in  a  hasty  scrawl  wrote : 

Beaulieu,  look  out  sharp  for  reporters!  Head  them  all  off. 
Net  one  word  of  any  of  this  must  get  out.  If  a  line  appears  in 
any  paper  to-morrow,  you're  fired !  M. 

"Here,  Jinyo!"  he  commanded.  "Rush  this  to  the 
majordomo.  Have  him  read  it,  then  be  sure  you  burn 
it.  Smooth  everything  down  as  much  as  possible.  And 
don't  come  back  here  till  I  ring — if  I  do.  Stay  out! 
And  don't  talk!  Understand?" 


THE  VOICE  OF  THE  BLIGHT        97 

"Yes,  sar."     Jinyo,  salaaming,  withdrew. 

"Now,  gentlemen?"  said  the  billionaire.  "To  busi' 
ness !" 

"Business!"  echoed  Wainwright.  "What  the  devil 
is  it,  anyhow?  You  invite  me  to  dinner,  Van,  and 
my  watch  and  chain  melt  off  me  like  ice-cream  in  Hell ! 
Come,  now,  what's  up?" 

The  billionaire  shot  a  penetrating  glance  at  the 
copper  czar. 

"This  is  no  time  for  joking,"  he  answered  incisively. 
"If  what  we  have  seen  here  is  true,  we're  up  against 
a  fearfully  critical  situation.  Just  what  it  all  means — 
well,  that's  for  us  to  find  out." 

A  pause. 

He  sat  down  at  the  end  of  the  devastated  table,  and 
motioned  the  others  to  be  seated  close  to  him  at  the 
table-end. 

Only  Sir  Grey-Huber  and  Baker,  however,  heeded 
the  invitation.  The  others  remained  standing.  Jassy 
crossed  his  arms;  Roswell  lighted  a  cigarette;  and  the 
baron,  his  left  hand  fingering  the  vacant  ribbon  on  his 
breast,  laid  his  right — brown,  and  fine,  and  immaculate 
— upon  the  cloth,  as  he  leaned  forward  to  listen. 

"Now,"  exclaimed  the  billionaire,  "the  very  first  thing 
for  us  to  do,  I  take  it,  is  to  get  an  expert  opinion  on  the 
— h-m! — the  ruins,  as  it  were. 

"Here,  in  five  minutes  as  you  see,  some  hundreds  of 
thousands  of  dollars'  worth  of  gold  has  undergone  an 
inexplicable  change.  More  than  that,  absolutely  price 
less  art-treasures  have  been  destroyed.  What's  left? 
What's  the  residue?  That's  our  prime  inquiry!" 

He  tried  to  steady  his  voice,  but  it  cracked  and  shook 


98  THE  GOLDEN  BLIGHT 

in  spite  of  him.  His  face  was  gray  as  the  ashes  on  the 
saturated  table-cloth ;  deep  were  the  lines  in  it,  and  elo 
quent  of  fear. 

"Dr.  Roswell,  and  you,  professor,"  he  added,  "what 
do  you  make  of — of  these?" 

He  gestured  at  the  mud-like  piles  of  dust  and  cham 
pagne,  and  at  two  or  three  plates  which,  though  still 
intact  in  form,  yet  showed  a  dull  leaden  hue  under  the 
golden  lights. 

The  doctor,  bending  over  the  remains  of  one  of  the 
Jcanthardi,  poked  curiously  with  his  finger.  He  rubbed 
the  stuff  between  his  thumb  and  index,  spread  some  in 
his  palm,  and  closely  examined  it.  Then  he  shook  his 
head. 

"Without  some  sort  of  chemical  analysis — "  he 
began. 

"You  don't  know,  then?" 

"Frankly,  I  don't.  No  use  trying  to  bluff.  It's  a 
material  I've  never  seen,  that's  certain.  But  if  I  had  it 
in  my  laboratory — " 

"This,"  interrupted  Jassy,  turning  one  of  the  plates 
in  his  hands,  "seems  to  be  the  silver,  with  a  leetle,  a 
wery  leetle  off  the  copper  alloy.  But  so  porous  haf  I 
never  seen  a  metal.  Something  haf  gone  avay  from 
out  it,  I  t'ink.  It  iss  strange,  eh?  Wery!" 

"Here,  let  me  see  it?"  asked  Roswell,  taking  it  from 
him,  while  the  others  watched  with  intense  interest. 

"Is  there  any  gold  in  it  now?"  queried  Murchison, 
in  a  strange  voice. 

"Gold?  Hardly!  It's  silver,  at  best.  There's  cer 
tainly  not  one  atom  or  particle  of  gold  in  it.  But 

what?    See  here— see  the  fine  ash  filter  out,  as  I  tap  it !" 


THE  VOICE  OF  THE  BLIGHT        99 

He  gave  it  a  sharp  rap,  then  another.  With  each, 
out  sifted  a  fine  white  dust.  At  the  third,  the  plate 
broke  in  two.  Its  cross-section  was  honeycombed 
with  infinitely  little  interstices,  practically  invisible  to 
the  naked  eye. 

The  copper  czar  took,  and  for  a  moment  examined, 
a  piece  of  this  strange,  spongy  metal. 

"And  you  put  your  monogram  on  that,  Murchison?" 
gibed  Wainwright.  "You  blazoned  your  name  on 
jwnkt" 

"Extraordinary,  my  word!"  exclaimed  Sir  Grey- 
Huber. 

Baker  picked  up  one  of  the  fragments  and  studied  it, 
while  Iwami  with  a  slim  forefinger  began  feeling  a  dust- 
pile  on  the  table. 

"Well,  what  the  devil?"  ejaculated  he. 

"Gentlemen,"  said  the  billionaire,  "I  assure  you  that, 
fifteen  minutes  ago,  this  light  and  porous  stuff,  brittle 
and  worthless,  was  21. 6K  gold-plate.  If  it  had  been 
pure  24K,  or  practically  so,  like  those  kanthardi — 
well,  you  would  have  had  to  pick  it  up  with  a  scoop ! 

"Now  do  you  grasp  the  idea?  Do  you  understand 
the  fact  we're  confronted  with?  Do  you  comprehend 
that,  under  the  influence  of  this  strange  force,  whatever 
it  is,  gold  melts  like  sugar  in  hot  water?" 

"Incredible !"  Grey-Huber  cried. 

Wainwright,  a  deep  wrinkle  drawn  between  his  brows, 
examined  a  little  of  the  wine-soaked  dust,  poking  at 
it  with  a  silver  fork  and  spreading  it  across  the 
cloth. 

As  for  the  baron,  he  glanced  with  eager,  suspicious 
eyes  from  one  to  another  of  the  party. 


100         THE  GOLDEN  BLIGHT 

"It's  surely  not  gold  now?  That's  positive?"  ex 
claimed  Murchison. 

Jassy  shook  his  head  in  negation. 

"But,  gentlemen,  it  was!" 

"H-m !"  sneered  Wainwright. 

"The  rings  and  watches  and  scarf-pins — the  ladies' 
bracelets,  chains  and  earrings — Baron  Iwami's  Order 
of  the  Rising  Sun — all  were  gold !  And  where  are  they 
now?"  insisted  the  billionaire. 

"But,  man — "  exclaimed  the  Secretary  of  War. 

"Listen!"  ejaculated  Murchison.  "Now  I'll  tell  you 
all  I  know.  You  won't  believe  me.  You'll  call  me 
insane — but  here  are  facts,  right  here  on  this  table,  to 
prove  I'm  not!  For  a  couple  of  days  past  I've  been 
threatened  by  a  crank — a  sort  of  fanatic,  I  reckon, 
with  a  fearful  grudge  against,  well,  against  gold.  He's 
been  making  certain  demands  on  me,  you  understand. 
And  his  threats  were  far  wider  than  just  breaking  up 
my  banquet  or  destroying  a  few  hundred  thousand  of 
my  gold.  He  swears  he'll  make  a  clean  sweep  of  all 
the  gold  in  the  world !" 

"Preposterous !"  put  in  Roswell. 

"Is  it?     If  he  can  do  this,  what's  to  hinder — ?" 

"Who  is  this  crimson  idiot,  anyhow?"  burst  out  the 
copper  czar.  " Who  is  this  run-amuck  Malay  ?  That's 
the  first  thing  to  know.  Once  we  get  hold  of 
him—" 

"Let  me  speak,  please!  Of  course  I  merely  ignored 
the  fellow.  I  thought  his  threats  of — h-m! — you 
know,  of  turning  gold  into  this,  were  just  plain  insan 
ity.  But  now,  gentlemen,  we're  facing  a  condition,  not 
a  theory !" 


THE  VOICE  OF  THE  BLIGHT      101 

"The  Hell  we  are !  Give  him  the  Pen— or  the  electric 
chair!" 

"S-h-h-h!  This  is  no  time  to  lose  our  tempers. 
We've  got  to  keep  cool,  now,  and  go  slow.  Once  we 
start  him  in  earnest,  he  will — I  believe  he  really  can — 
sweep  this  world  with  a  Blight  such  as  it's  never  known ! 
He'll  wreck  everything,  in  one  general  smash,  and  be 
glad  to  die  in  the  ruins,  like  Samson,  so  long  as  he  can 
pull  society  down — and  us,  too,  with  it !" 

"Kill  the  swine !"  cried  Wainwright. 

"We  need  cautious  heads  now,  and  decisive  action. 
And  we,  gentlemen,  just  we  seven,  right  here  in  the 
room,  must  turn  the  trick. 

"Nobody  else  knows  this.  Nobody  must  know !  The 
whole  campaign  must  be  fought  out  in  a  day  or  two — 
and  won!  If  even  the  faintest  suspicion  of  this  new 
power  gets  out,  think  what  it'll  do  to  the  Street !  Why, 
markets  will  tumble  so  fast,  credits  drop  out,  and  busi 
ness  go  to  smash  at  a  rate  that  will  leave  the  whole  cap 
italist  class  gasping  like  a  fish  out  of  water.  Quick 
action,  gentlemen!" 

He  paused  and  glanced  from  face  to  face,  trying  to 
fathom  them ;  to  probe  the  effect  of  his  words. 

"Here  we  are,  seven  of  us,  well  chosen.  We  repre 
sent,  among  us,  high  finance,  science  of  the  most  ad 
vanced  type,  military  skill  and  power,  and  diplomatic 
relations  with  two  of  the  greatest  nations  on  earth. 
Great  Britain,  Japan,  and  the  United  States  here  join 
hands  for  the  safety,  the  salvation  of  the  world!  Do 
you  understand  me?  Shall  we  get  down  to  ways  and 
means  ?" 

In  the  little  silence  that  followed,  Wainwright  spoke. 


102         THE  GOLDEN  BLIGHT 

"See  here,  Murchison,"  said  he  cynically,  "this  is  all 
bunk !  You  know  and  I  know,  and  we  all  know,  that  no 
such  power  as  this  exists  on  earth.  Gold  is  positively 
indestructible !  You  can  sell  the  public  650,000  shares 
of  P.  W.  E.,  in  two  months,  and  put  over  whatever 
you  choose  on  the  Interstate  Commerce  Commission — 
to  say  nothing  of  a  hundred  other  strokes  of  genius — 
but  you  can't  come  this  blight  business  on  us!  Some 
smart  Aleck  has  put  up  a  clever  job  on  you,  that's 
all.  It's  a  good  trick,  I  admit;  but  a  trick,  none  the 
less.  How  done?  7  don't  know!  But  I  bet  you  my 
Santa  Lucia  string  of  copper-mines  against  your  old 
socks  I  can  produce  a  stage-magician  who  can  work  the 
same  racket! 

"Well,  take  my  wager?" 

Murchison,  smiling  very  grimly,  turned  to  Professor 
Jassy,  and  to  Roswell. 

"Has  any  radio-active  force  been  at  work  on  this 
metal  and  this  ash?"  said  he. 

"It  look  that  vay,  to  me,"  answered  the  professor, 
while  Roswell  nodded  corroboration.  "No  other  hy- 
pot'esis  explain  the  residue.  But  vat  force  it  iss,  I 
cannot  say — yet.  Only  I  am  off  the  opinion — " 

"Bunk!"  shouted  Wainwright.  "Stuff  and  non 
sense!  Give  the  damned  fanatic  a  few  hundred  bucks 
— if  you  don't  dare  slug  him — and  let  him  fill  up  on 
whatever  dope  he  gets  his  pipe-dreams  from.  I  guar 
antee  you'll  hear  no  more  from  him !  Here,  gentlemen, 
I'll  start  the  slush-fund !" 

Leaning  back,  heavily,  he  thrust  his  fat  hand  into  his 
trousers-pocket  and  drew  out  a  black  leather  purse. 

"Here  goes  for  easy  blackmail !"  sneered  he.     "I  head 


THE  VOICE  OF  THE  BLIGHT      103 

the  list  with  one  hundred  dollars  in  gold — all  in  big 
double-eagles — on  condition  that  each  of  you  chips  in 
the  same  amount !" 

Tap-tap-tap!  sounded  a  knocking  at  the  door. 

"What  is  it?     Who's  there?"  called  Murchison. 

"Telegram  for  you,  sar,"  came  the  thin  and  penetrat 
ing  voice  of  Jinyo. 

"Bring  it  in !" 

A  moment  later  Murchison  had  ripped  the  yellow 
envelope.  At  a  glance  he  read: 

Convinced  yet?  Yield,  or  widespread  general  campaign  begins 
at  once.  Nothing  can  stop  it  but  capitulation.  THE  BLIGHT. 

"See  for  yourselves?"  bitterly  smiled  Murchison,  and 
tossed  the  slip  of  paper  to  the  men,  who  fairly  snatched 
at  it. 

Only  Wainwright  did  not  reach  out  an  eager  hand 
to  grasp  the  telegram. 

For,  slumped  far  down  in  his  chair,  wordless,  staring 
and  very  pale,  he  was  gaping  at  his  empty  purse — his 
purse  at  the  bottom  of  which,  sifted  down  into  the  seams 
and  crannies  of  the  leather,  lay  only  a  few  pinches  of 
a  fine,  white,  metallic  dust ! 


CHAPTER    XIII 

THE    SEVEN    CONSIDEE 

MURCHISON  laughed  dryly,  as  the  copper  czar,  dump 
ing  this  dust  on  the  table,  recoiled  from  it  in  terror. 

"Charlatanism,  eh?"  queried  he.  "Sleight-of-hand 
and  mountebankery,  what?  I  reckon  you're  settled,  all 
right  enough.  It  all  depends  on  whose  ox  is  gored, 
Andrew.  No  more  objection  to  our  campaign,  I  take 
it?  And  no  more  idea  of  buying  off  the  attacker? 
Very  good,  then." 

He  turned  to  the  others,  while  Wainwright  still  con 
tinued,  in,  a  dazed  fashion,  to  stare  at  the  dust  which 
now  represented  his  gold. 

"So  now  then,  gentlemen,"  he  dryly  continued,  "how 
do  we  proceed?  You've  seen  the  facts.  You  see  the 
message,  the  ultimatum.  Has  anybody  a  suggestion 
to  make?  Before  midnight  we  ought  to  have  mapped 

a  plan  of  campaign.     It's  now — now " 

He  glanced  at  the  ivory  clock  on  the  far  wall,  then 
broke  short  off. 

"The  devil!"  he  ejaculated.  «If  he  hasn't  hit  that, 
too!" 

All  eyes  turned  toward  the  clock.  Blank,  now,  and 
utterly  devoid  of  information,  the  dial  showed  a  clear 
white  circle.  Golden  hands  and  figures  had  vanished. 

Baron  Iwami  exclaimed  something  unintelligible,  in 

104 


THE  SEVEN  CONSIDER         105 

his  native  tongue,  with  that  same  odd,  hissing  intake  of 
the  breath.  Professor  Jassy  frowned  behind  his  glasses 
as  he  rubbed  his  bald  spot.  Grey-Huber  tugged  at  his 
mustaches. 

Then  said  Baker,  banging  his  fist  upon  the  table: 

"Let  me  deal  with  him!  I  guarantee  that  inside  of 
twenty-four  hours — well,  he  won't  be  sending  telegrams, 
that's  all !  We  have  ways  to  do  things  in  our  depart 
ment!" 

"You  don't  understand,"  replied  Murchison,  creasing 
the  message  nervously.  "You  don't  grasp  the  thing  at 
all.  If  he's — er — dealt  with  as  he  deserves,  that  (he 
claims)  will  turn  the  infernal  plague  loose  upon  society, 
wholesale.  It's  only  by  diplomacy,  by  seeming  to 
yield,  by  temporizing  until  we  get  the  position  of  advan 
tage — only  along  these  lines  have  we  the  slightest 
chance  of  beating  him !" 

"Excuse  me,  sar,"  murmured  Jinyo,  bowing,  "but 
other  messages  come,  also,  just  now.  By  the  telephone. 
Mrs.  Farquhar,  she  say  that  her  gold — how  do  you  call 
it,  sar? — her — " 

"Something  lost,  eh?  How  many  people  have  called 
up  to  report  losses  which  they  think  have  taken  place 
on  the  way  home  ?  About  how  many  ?  Quick !" 

"Seven,  six,  maybe.      They — " 

"No  matter !  I  don't  care  about  details  now.  Tell 
Beaulieu  to  smooth  everybody  down.  Tell  him  to 
phone  'em  all  that  everything  shall  be  investigated  and 
all  losses  more  than  made  good,  as  I've  said  before — if 
they'll  keep  their  mouths  shut!  Understand?" 

"Yes,  sar." 

"All  right.     Clear  out  now!     YuTce." 


106         THE  GOLDEN  BLIGHT 

When  he  was  gone,  Murchison  said,  very  slowly: 

"Gentlemen,  this  has  got  to  be  a  Fabian  game.  We 
must  seem  to  surrender,  then  suddenly  close  in  on  him. 
We  must  get  his  secret  first — find  how  he's  working,  and 
where,  and  wreck  his  damned  machinery  or  process  or 
whatever  it  is.  Since  he's  unbribable,  that  complicates 
matters.  But  there  must  be  a  way.  And  we've  got 
to  find  it!" 

Silence.     Then  in  an  altered  voice  said  Wainwright : 

"There's  the  devil  to  pay!  If  this  is  true — and 
that's  the  way  it  certainly  looks  now — there's  bright 
blue  Hades  dead  ahead  for  everybody  that  is  anybody." 

"Right  you  are  for  once,"  assented  Murchison. 

He  sat  down  wearily,  leaned  his  head  on  his  hand, 
and  thought  a  moment. 

"This  time  we're  not  up  against  any  kind  of  deal 
we're  used  to.  It's  not  a  raid  on  the  market,  a  big 
strike,  a  panic,  or  anything  we  can  handle  in  the  usual 
way  by  manipulating  the  press  and  pulling  the  right 
legal  or  judicial  wires. 

"We're  face  to  face  with  a  single  determined,  power 
ful  individual,  a  hitherto  obscure  scientist,  chemist, 
physicist,  or  whatever  you  want  to  call  him.  His  name 
is  John  Storm.  He  lives  at  75A  Danton  Place,  New 
York  City,  in  cheap  little  rooms.  He's  a  poor  man, 
with  nothing  to  lose  but  his  liberty  or  his  life,  about 
neither  of  which  he  cares  a  hang.  And — " 

"What's  his  demand,  Van?"  interjected  Wain- 
wright. 

"His  demand?" 

"Yes !  Why  not  give  him  what  he  wants,  and  have 
(done  with  him?" 


THE  SEVEN  CONSIDER         107 

"Give  him  what  he  wants  ?  Why,  you're  crazy ! 
He  wants — he  wants  us  to  abdicate !" 

"What?" 

"It  comes  to  the  same  thing.  He's  demanding  that 
we  abolish  armies  and  navies,  altogether,  and  put  a 
stop  to  war.  That  is,  make  an  end  of  our  expansion, 
our  markets,  our — " 

"He  must  be  an  absolute  lunatic!"  put  in  Baker. 

"Naturally.  But  he's  got  power !  And  what  could 
be  more  dangerous  than  a  madman  with  power?  He's 
like  a  maniac  running  the  streets  with  a  bottle  of  nitro 
glycerine  in  either  hand. 

"I  tell  you,  gentlemen,  this  thing  is  bigger  and  more 
serious  than  any  of  you  realize,  as  yet.  The  man  is 
absolutely  determined  to  have  his  way  with  us.  He 
means  to  put  an  end  to  war.  That  involves  the  finish 
of  every  moneyed  man,  every  military  man,  every  trust 
and  big  business,  and  the  whole  capitalist  world,  in 
general.  It  simmers  right  down  to  that ;  there's  no 
alternative  save  universal  wreckage.  He  wants  us,  us, 
to  abdicate! 

"We're  damned  if  we  don't,  and  we're  damned  if  we 
do,  gentlemen.  We've  got  to  fight.  But  how?" 

He  paused  and  looked  from  one  to  another  of  the 
Emergency  Committee. 

The  baron,  arms  crossed,  was  sunk  in  thought.  Ros- 
well,  an  odd  smile  on  his  face,  was  poking  at  a  pile  of 
ash.  Only  Wainwright  seemed  to  have  a  definite 
idea. 

"Has  this  Storm  made  any  written  demands?  Any 
thing,  actionable,  along  the  lines  of  blackmail?" 

"Nothing,    so    far — save    this!"     And    Murchison 


108         THE  GOLDEN  BLIGHT 

tapped  the  slip  of  yellow  paper  that  still  lay,  crumpled, 
on  the  ravaged  table. 

"Damn!  That's  a  pity.  But  how  about  having  a 
sanity  commission  appointed  to  examine  him  and  put 
him  out  of  the  way?" 

"And  have  the  gold-rimmed  glasses  of  the  experts, 
their  watch-chains  and  cuff -buttons  and  all  that  sort  of 
thing  drop  off  while  they're  double-crossing  him?  And 
let  the  secret  out,  eh?  That  shows  your  caliber!" 
sneered  Murchison.  "Trouble  enough  as  it  is  to  keep 
things  dark  till  we  can  strike." 

"A  little  hydrocyanic  acid  gas  would  settle  him," 
said  Wainwright  very  sarcastically.  "Settle  him  and 
his  fool  notions  mighty  quick." 

"No,  that  won't  do.  That  would  only  let  the  pes 
tilence  loose  on  the  world  in  a  single  moment.  You 
can  catch  more  flies  with  sugar,  Andrew,  than  you  can 
with  vinegar.  You've  been  a  financier  long  enough  to 
know  iliatr 

"Bah!"  ejaculated  the  copper  czar.  "When  we  can 
kill,  why  trap?  We  can't  be  beaten  more  than  tempo 
rarily.  Nobody  can  hand  it  to  us.  We've  got  all  the 
power,  and  you  know  it.  We  hold  the  political  machin 
ery,  the  banks,  railroads,  mines,  mills,  factories,  prac 
tically  every  official  in  the  country  from  President  down 
to  Podunk  dog-catcher;  the  schools,  universities,  press, 
army,  navy,  police — everything  worth  having. 

"And  against  us  is  pitted — what?     One  man!" 

"There  may  be  more,  later." 

"Well,  what  of  that?  If  the  people  start  to  follow 
this  maniac,  give  'em  Napoleon's  infallible  prescription, 
'a  whiff  of  grape.'  I  guarantee  that'll  settle  things. 


THE  SEVEN  CONSIDER         109 

Why,  this  man  assailing  us  is  like  a  lunatic  attacking 
Napoleon's  Grand  Army,  itself,  and — " 

"One  lunatic  with  a  machine  gun  in  1815  could  have 
wiped  out  the  Old  Guard  in  five  minutes,"  broke  in 
Murchison  satirically. 

"But,  gentlemen,  this  is  quite  plain  to  me;  we've  got 
no  program  yet.  This  conference  has  really  accom 
plished  nothing,  except  to  strengthen  the  decision  that 
we'll  fight — to  a  finish. 

"Let  me  suggest  that  we  adjourn  now.  Each  of  us 
should  sleep  on  this.  Each  should  ponder;  should  for 
mulate  some  coherent  plan.  To-morrow  I'll  summon 
you  again,  and  we'll  put  our  heads  together  for  a  final 
settlement.  Is  that  all  right?  Meanwhile  leave  Storm 
to  me — I'll  dangle  him  along. 

"So  now,  gentlemen,  if  there  are  no  further  remarks, 
I  declare  the  meeting  closed." 

A  little  pause  followed.  Then  Jassy  gathered  up  a 
little  of  the  dust,  folded  it  in  a  menu,  and  slipped  it  into 
his  pocket. 

"For  analysis,"  said  he. 

"Good!"  assented  Roswell.  "I'll  work  on  the  frag 
ments  of  one  of  these  plates." 

The  baron  arose,  bowed,  and  turned  toward  the  door ; 
and  Sir  Grey-Huber,  shaking  a  puzzled  head,  followed 
him.  The  little  party  drifted,  wordless  and  glum,  out 
into  the  huge  entrance-hall. 

While  Jinyo  and  two  other  valets  were  putting  on  the 
guests'  coats  and  the  doorman  summoning  their  cars, 
Murchison  maneuvered  Baker  and  Wainwright  into  a 
corner. 

"Don't  criticize,"  he  growled  beneath  his  breath.     "I 


110         THE  GOLDEN  BLIGHT 

know  what  you  want  to  say,  Andy ;  and  it's  dead  right, 
too;  I  ought  to  have  excluded  Huber  and  the  baron. 
But  under  the  circumstances  I  couldn't.  It  would  have 
played  up  all  kinds  of  international  trouble. 

"They're  done  now.  Dead  wood,  both  of  'em — not 
a  spark  of  initiative  or  genius.  They'll  wait  for  my 
summons — which  won't  come  till  everything's  settled 
and  through  with.  So  will  Roswell.  Jassy  we  need. 
You  two  men  meet  me  at  my  office,  10  A.  M.  sharp,  to 
morrow,  and  we'll  get  down  to  brass  tacks.  Are  you 
on?" 

He  turned,  smiling,  to  grasp  the  hand  of  Sir  Grey- 
Huber,  who  now — muffled  in  heavy  furs — was  coming  to 
say  good  night. 

With  a  few  commonplace  conventionalities  the  guests 
took  their  leave. 

Only  when  they  all  were  gone  did  Murchison  realize 
the  frightful  tension  he  had  been  undergoing  for  the 
past  few  hours. 

Exhausted,  beaten  out,  almost  on  the  verge  of  a 
nervous  collapse,  he  locked  himself  in  his  own  rooms. 
He  positively  refused  to  see  either  his  wife  or  daughter. 
For  their  amazed  queries  he  had  no  answer — nothing 
but  one  stern  command :  "Silence !" 

And  until  far  into  the  hours  of  early  morning  his  slip 
pered  tread  sounded  across  the  polished  floor  over  the 
precious  Shiraz  rugs ;  pacing,  repacing — pacing,  re- 
pacing,  as  he  wrestled  with  the  problems  of  the  impend 
ing  ruin  of  the  System. 


CHAPTER    XIV 

THE     TRIUMVIRATE 

His  face  was  drawn  and  hard,  as  at  quarter  to  ten  in 
his  office,  on  the  southwest  corner  of  Broad  and  Wall, 
he  greeted  Baker,  first  to  arrive. 

Luxurious  the  place  was;  more  like  a  salon  than  an 
office  where  the  reins  of  world-power  centered,  and 
where  deals  involving  uncounted  millions  of  lives  and 
dollars  had  been  put  through. 

Only  with  dulled  and  distant  echoings  the  vital  tides 
of  the  city's  life  reechoed  at  that  height  and  through 
those  thick  plate-glass  windows,  those  heavy  silken 
draperies. 

The  shades,  partly  drawn,  excluded  the  cold  glare  of 
the  December  morning,  dour  and  ugly.  Hidden  cornice- 
lights,  tinted  a  ruddy  pink,  glowed  warmly  through  the 
room;  and  on  the  hearth  a  fire  of  first-growth  Georgia 
cedar  diffused  its  pleasant,  characteristic  perfume. 

All  poverty,  want,  care,  hunger,  and  human  suffer 
ing  seemed  but  dream-wraiths  in  that  atmosphere, 
impossible  to  realize,  to  render  concrete  or  intel 
ligible. 

Baker  and  Murchison,  each  hesitant  to  broach  the 
vital  question,  passed  a  few  trivialities  about  the 
weather.  Before  they  had  veered  round  to  the  matter 
in  hand  Wainwright  arrived,  heavy  and  rubicund — a 

111 


112         THE  GOLDEN  BLIGHT 

bull  of  a  man.  Held  tight  between  his  lips  a  Mindanao 
exhaled  its  perfume  on  the  air. 

He  shook  hands  with  both  men. 

"Good  morning,  Secretary!  Hello,  Van,  how  goes 
it?"  He  tried  to  speak  casually;  but  a  tension  was 
evident  between  all  three  rich  men — a  strained  endeavor 
to  appear  natural  and  quite  at  ease.  Truth  was,  they 
all  sensed  the  inherent  capitalist  instinct  of  suspicion, 
ever  existent  among  even  the  closest  so-called  friends 
of  that  class. 

The  lack  of  real  faith  and  trust  and  confidence  made 
itself  manifest.  No  true  fraternity  in  a  common  cause, 
but  only  an  alliance  in  face  of  peril,  now  united  this 
triumvirate ;  a  bond  developed  by  the  accident  of  having 
shared  the  secret  at  the  banquet  of  the  night  before. 

Murchison,  with  a  quick  up-peering  from  beneath  his 
brows,  asked  sharply: 

"Well,  Andrew?  Any  news?  Have  you  seen  any 
thing  like  a  leak,  in  the  papers  ?" 

"Not  a  word.  I've  looked  'em  all  over.  Abso 
lutely  mum,  thank  God !" 

"I  guess  you're  right,"  answered  the  billionaire. 
"I've  bought  them  all,  too.  Haven't  found  a  line  of 
trouble  in  any  of  them — but  I  thought  I  might  have 
missed  it,  somehow.  And  you,  Secretary?" 

"Everything's  quiet,  so  far  as  I've  been  able  to 
learn,"  answered  Baker. 

"Good !  That's  the  first  step.  Any  data,  yet,  from 
Jassy?" 

"Data?  Rather !"  He  spread  his  hands  before  the 
cheery  blaze.  "If  we're  ready  now  to  cut  out  theoriz- 
ings  and  get  down  to  hard-pan,  I'll  report." 


THE  TRIUMVIRATE  US 

"Pray,  do,"  said  Baker.  "The  sooner  we  get  to 
work,  the  better." 

"Right  you  are.  On  my  way  downtown  I  dropped 
in  to  see  J.  According  to  him,  the  thing's  real  enough. 
Here's  his  written  analysis. 

"Translating  this  out  of  the  scientific  hocus-pocus 
jargon,"  said  he,  "it  seems  that  Jassy  has  tried  various 
tests  for  gold,  including  the  touchstone,  the  cyanid, 
the  pyrogallic  salt  method,  and  several  others.  No,, 
gold,  gentlemen.  None  at  all.  Nothing  doing,  abso 
lutely." 

"But  the  ash?  What  is  it?"  interjected  Murchison 
sharply. 

"He  doesn't  know.  Can't  tell.  And  I'U  give  the  old 
wart  credit  for  being  honest  enough  to  say  so  and  not 
to  try  to  bluff.  He  can't  analyze  it — yet.  It  reacts  to 
no  recognized  agents;  it  has  nothing  in  common  either 
with  a  metal,  a  salt,  an  acid,  or  an  alkali.  It's  no 
known  element.  In  short,  it's  something  entirely  new 
in  the  scientific  world — so  Jassy  swears." 

"And  the  piece  of  plate  that  Roswell  took?" 

"No  gold.  Roswell  was  about  right  in  his  snap-shot 
judgment  last  night.  I  called  him  by  'phone  this  morn 
ing.  Gold,  minus.  Nothing  but  a  flimsy,  friable 
honeycomb  of  silver  and  copper — the  residue  of  the 
alloy,  you  understand,  after  the  gold  vanished  out 
of  it." 

Wainwright  blew  a  cloud  of  smoke,  spat  and  looked 
from  one  man  to  the  other. 

"This  fact  is  worth  knowing.  As  a  practical  min 
ing  man  and  a  student  of  metals  as  commercial  propo 
sitions,  these  data  are  certainly  invaluable  to  me.  Sup- 


114         THE  GOLDEN  BLIGHT 

pose  the  scarlet  lunatic  should  turn  his  rays  or  what 
ever  he's  got  there  on  my  Mexican  properties  or  my 
Rand  holdings?  The  ore,  gentlemen — the  ore  right  in 
the  solid  earth — wouldn't  be  worth  a  continental  ex 
cept  for  ship-ballast.  Grand  situation,  isn't  it?" 

Silently  pondered  the  billionaire.     Then  said  he: 

"I  want  to  add  a  few  words  to  that  report,  gentle 
men." 

He  faced  the  other  two. 

"It's  evident  we're  dealing  with  an  irresponsible  fa 
natic,  an  avowed  enemy  of  the  existing  order  of  right, 
law,  order,  and  profits.  One  who  hasn't  the  slightest 
consideration  for  established  institutions  or  vested  in 
terests,  if  only  he  can  work  his  will. 

"Other  things  have  happened  since  the  dinner.  Other 
and  very  serious  things.  See  here !" 

From  his  pocket  he  took  a  little  paper  parcel,  secured 
with  rubber  bands.  This  he  opened.  Inside  it  appeared 
a  pinch  of  that  now  all  too  familiar  gray  dust. 

"I  reckon  you  can't  identify  this,"  remarked  he. 
"Last  night  it  was  the  solid  gold  tiara  of  King  Chlodo- 
vic,  the  Goth.  Age,  fifteen  centuries,  roughly  speak 
ing.  Intrinsic  value,  maybe  only  about  twenty-five 
thousand  dollars ;  but  historically  considered  as  an 
antique  and  an  objet  d'art  beyond  all  calculation. 

"I  kept  it  in  my  house-safe,  you  understand,  in  a 
special  flint-glass  box,  cased  in  mahogany.  This  morn 
ing  when  I  happened  to  think  of  examining  it,  to  see  if 
anything  had  happened — well,  you  see  all  that  was  left 
in  the  bottom  of  the  box ! 

"Steel,  gentlemen,  is  no  protection  against  this  van 
dal.  Neither  is  glass.  Lead  might  be,  or  some  other 


THE  TRIUMVIRATE  115 

substance.  But  while  we're  trying  to  find  it,  and  to 
get  our  art  treasures  and  our  various  forms  of  gold 
properly  encased,  he  may  easily  obliterate  the  whole 
business  at  one  blow.  We  must  act  at  once — immedi 
ately!" 

"We  went  all  over  that  ground,  last  night,"  said 
Baker.  "It's  easy  to  say  'Act,'  but  how?" 

"Buy  him  off — that's  the  easiest  way!"  exclaimed 
Wainwright.  "Saves  trouble  and  publicity.  Some 
thing  generous,  of  course.  What  you  said  last  night 
about  his  being  incorruptible  is  mere  bunk,  Murchison. 
Nobody  is.  Not  one  man  or  woman  in  this  world — \ 
not  one!  Provided,  of  course,  the  price  is  right,  in 
quality  or  quantity  or  what  not.  Recipe!  Find 
what's  wanted,  and  give  it.  Doctors  call  that  a  place 
bo.  I've  changed  my  mind  about  opposing  him,  be 
cause,  as  you  say,  while  we  were  at  it  he  might  wreck 
things  right  and  left.  The  placebo  treatment  for 
mine !" 

He  folded  Jassy's  report  as  he  spoke,  creased  it  care 
fully  and  put  it  back  into  his  pocket. 

"Well?"  asked  he,  drawing  at  his  Mindanao  and 
squinting  at  the  fire. 

"I  think,  before  we  take  up  any  line  of  action  at  all," 
suggested  the  Secretary  of  War,  "we'd  better  see  this — 
what's  his  name?  Storm? — this  Storm  individual,  and 
have  a  good,  fair  talk  with  him.  It's  just  possible  he 
might  be  made  to  hear  reason,  h-m !  h-m ! — to  take  the 
treatment  suggested  by  Mr.  Wainwright  here,  and  to 
save  all  parties  concerned  a  great  deal  of  trouble." 

Murchison  grimaced. 

"You  don't  know  the  maniac  !"  snapped  he.     "If  you 


116         THE  GOLDEN  BLIGHT 

want  to  know  him,  though,  it  can  do  no  harm.  I  grant 
you  that." 

"Can  you  get  him  on  the  'phone?" 

"Of  course!" 

He  pressed  a  button  at  the  side  of  his  desk.  Almost 
at  once  the  door  of  the  outer  office  opened. 

"Hanscomb!" 

"Yes,  sir?" 

"Call  up  985  Gramercy  and  plug  it  in  on  this  instru 
ment  her.e!"  And  Murchison  nodded  at  the  equipoise 
bracket  at  his  elbow. 

"Yes,  sir.      In  a  second,  sir." 

The  clerk,  perfectly  trained,  withdrew. 

A  minute  later  the  bell  brr-r-r-r-rd  sharply.  Mur 
chison  swung  the  bracket  round  and  took  down  the 
receiver. 

"Hello,  hello?     Storm?" 

it  99 

Murchison  clapped  a  hand  over  the  transmitter. 

"Got  him!"  he  announced,  in  a  swift  aside.  "The 
spawn  of  Hell!"  Then,  once  more  speaking  into  the 
instrument : 

"Good!  Say,  see  here,  Storm — Eh?  You — you  ob 
ject  to  my  comment  on  your  person?  But — but, 
man — !  How  could  you  have  heard  that?  Are  you 
the  devil,  or  what?" 

«  99 

"All  right,  I  apologize.  Forget  it!  See  here,  now, 
Storm,  I  must  admit,  right  off,  you  certainly  kicked 
up  a  devil  of  a  row  with  us  last  night.  Yes,  we're 
ready  to  talk  business  now.  No  more  backing  and 
filling.  I  reckon  it's  time  for  us  to  dicker  with  you. 


THE  TRIUMVIRATE  117 

before  you  cut  up  any  more  such  capers.     Can  you 
drop  down  to  see  us?" 

"Eh?     How  do  you  know  Wainwright  and  Baker 
are  here?" 

"All  right.  Come  on  down,  anyhow.  We'll  smoke 
one  of  those  famous  cigars  together,  and —  All  right !" 

ii  5> 

"Ten- thirty,  then,  ready  for  business.  O.K.  Good 
bye!" 

Murchison  hung  up,  pushed  the  bracket  away,  and 
swung  round  in  his  big  swivel-chair. 

"What  d'you  think  of  that?"  he  croaked.  "He's  got 
wireless  beaten  every  way  for  Sunday !  I  tell  you  men, 
if  we  go  on  the  assumption  we're  up  against  a  simple, 
ABC  proposition,  we're  making  a  fatal  mistake. 
Storm  is  a  hard  nut,  a  damned  hard  nut.  If  we  get 
away  with  him  at  all,  we'll  be  doing  well.  I  warn  you 
now,  think  twice  before  you  speak,  and  then  only  say 
part  of  it !" 

The  half -hour  had  not  struck  when  Hanscomb  ush 
ered  the  scientist  in  from  the  other  office.  Murchison 
met  him  at  the  door,  with  a  hand-shake  of  unfeigned 
relief. 

"Mr.  John  Storm!"  said  he,  and  gave  the  others' 
names. 

Then,  when  the  conventional  words  had  been  ex 
changed,  he  bade  Hanscomb  set  big  leather  chairs  con 
veniently  before  the  simulated  good  cheer  of  the  hearth. 

They  all  sat  down,  chose  cigars  and  fired  up. 
Storm,  awaiting  overtures,  gazed  non-committally  into 


118         THE  GOLDEN  BLIGHT 

the  fire.  Murchison  took  off  his  glasses — silver-bowed 
glasses,  now,  like  his  silver  watch  and  chain — and  began 
polishing  them  on  his  handkerchief. 

As  for  Wainwright,  he  leaned  back,  clasped  his  thick 
hands  over  his  head,  narrowly  eyed  the  newcomer,  and 
belched  smoke. 

"Well,  now  to  business !"  suddenly  spoke  up  the  bil 
lionaire.  "No  explanations  are  necessary,  Mr.  Storm. 
These  gentlemen  were  both  among  my  guests  last 
night." 

"Of  course.     I  know  it." 

"So?     And  you  know  all  that  happened  there?" 

"Naturally." 

Storm  spoke  in  even  tones,  without  a  trace  of  boast- 
fulness,  but  as  merely  stating  a  simple  fact. 

"Very  well — so  be  it,"  answered  Murchison.  "You 
needn't,  therefore,  waste  any  time  convincing  Baker  and 
Wainwright,  here,  of  your  power.  To  misquote  Cse- 
sar,  they  came,  they  saw,  they  were  convinced.  They 
are  both  equally  interested,  with  me,  in  adjusting  mat 
ters  satisfactorily.  I  reckon  we  can  get  together, 
somehow  or  other,  and — and  settle  things  right  for  all 
parties  concerned,  without  the  least  hard  feelings. 
They've  been  helping  me  keep  everything  quiet — " 

"Why  do  you  want  to  keep  this  quiet?" 

"Why?  Oh — ah — well,  you  see — naturally,  it's  best 
for  this  matter  to  remain  in  our  hands,  and  not  get  to 
the  general  public.  It  might — hm! — disturb  confi 
dence,  you  know,  and — and — in  short,  Storm,  you  can 
deal  with  all  three  of  us  as  though  we  formed  a  unit." 

"You're  ready  to  make  terms?" 

"Terms !     Just  that !     Terms !" 


CHAPTER    XV 

THE    ULTIMATUM 

"TEEMS,  that's  the  word  now,  Mr.  Storm,"  spoke  up 
Wainwright.  "Terms!  What's  doing?" 

The  scientist  squinted  at  the  fire. 

"It's  quite  simple,"  he  answered.  "I've  already  ex 
plained  to  Mr.  Murchison."  He  spoke  a  trifle  slowly, 
to  make  each  word  quite  plain. 

"Terms!  My  terms  are  very  simple.  They're  the 
same  to-day  that  they  were  yesterday;  the  same  as 
they'll  be  to-morrow  and  next  week  and  next  month — if 
this  matter  takes  as  long  as  that  to  settle;  which  it 
won't. 

"The  whole  thing  simmers  down  to  this:  I  have  a 
new,  wide-spreading,  irresistible  radio-active  force  at 
my  command.  I  have  Power.  I  am  utterly  and  ir 
revocably  opposed  to  military  and  naval  expenditures, 
to  standing  armies,  militarism,  imperialism,  and  war 
fare.  I  intend  to  use  my  power  to  end  those  things. 
That's  all.  Nothing  hard  to  grasp  there,  gentlemen !" 

"What  are  you?"  demanded  the  copper  czar.  "One 
of  these  crazy  radicals?" 

"No,  I've  never  joined  them — not  politically,  that  is. 
But  in  so  far  as  they  oppose  warfare,  I'm  with  them. 
And  that,  you  know,  forms  a  considerable  part  of  their 

program,  anti-militarism  does.     But  we're  not  here  to 

119 


120         THE  GOLDEN  BLIGHT 

talk  politics.  We're  here  to  get  together  on  this  anti 
war  proposition,  and  the  sooner  we  do  it,  the  better." 

The  Secretary  of  War  coughed. 

"But,  sir,"  interposed  he,  a  little  warmly,  "aren't 
these  institutions  necessary  to  civilized  life?" 

"No.  On  the  contrary,  they  retard  and  injure  it  at 
every  point  of  contact.  They  bleed  civilization  almost 
to  death,  not  only  by  the  slaughter  of  hordes  of  able- 
bodied  males,  but  also  by  unparalleled  expenditures  of 
money,  all  unproductive." 

"You  exaggerate,"  put  in  Wainwright.  "Compared 
with  the  size  and  wealth  of  the  country  as  a  whole,  our 
bill  for  military  purposes  is  no  heavier  than  yours  for 
pipe-tobacco,  or,  at  most,  cigars." 

As  though  to  illustrate,  he  took  another  weed  from 
his  waistcoat-pocket  and  lighted  up. 

Storm  answered: 

"No,  sir,  you're  wrong.  Just  in  money  cost,  this 
item— including  loss  of  producing  power  by  the  men 
involved,  interest  on  our  public  debt,  pensions,  and  so 
on — comes  to  more  than  $450,000,000  a  year.  Do  you 
realize  what  that  money  would  do  in  the  way,  for  in 
stance,  of  education?  It  would  keep  1,800,000  young 
men  and  women  in  college  a  whole  year,  for  one  thing. 

"A  single  shot  from  a  single  big  gun  of  a  single  war 
ship  burns  up  the  price  of  20,000  loaves  of  bread ;  and 
men,  women,  and  children  are  starving  right  here  in 
New  York  City,  not  a  mile  from  this  office !  One  broad 
side  volley  costs— think  of  it!— $20,000!  The  total 
war-bill  of  the  world,  even  prior  to  1914,  was  eight  bil 
lion  dollars  a  year!" 

"Impossible !"  cried  Murchison,  trying  to  sneer. 


THE  ULTIMATUM  121 

"No,  not  impossible,  but  true.  And  all  paid  by  the 
masses  to  enrich  your  kind  of  people,"  Storm  contin 
ued.  "All  spent  for  expansion,  for  markets,  for  profits, 
gentlemen.  Of  such  is  the  Kingdom  of  Gold — which  I 
am  going  to  destroy. 

"Just  try  to  imagine  at  least  a  little  of  this  ghastly 
situation — leaving  aside  all  thought  of  the  hideous  pain 
involved,  the  mutilation,  blindness  and  agony,  the  suf 
ferings  of  the  millions  of  widows  and  fatherless  children 
— and  you  can  get  some  faint  idea  of  what  it  costs  civ- 
ilzation  to  'brag  and  strut  and  piously  prepare  to  set 
tle  disputes  as  tigers  settle  theirs — by  force.  It  is  as 
if  the  fiends  of  Hell  were  crazed  and  loose  on  earth. 
And  this  is  statesmanship !'  This  is  the  Reign  of 
Gold!" 

Wainwright,  forgetting  even  to  smoke,  shifted  un 
easily  in  his  chair. 

"Admitting,  for  the  sake  of  argument,"  said  he,  "that 
all  this  is  true — and  you  seem  to  have  your  figures 
handy—" 

"I  have,"  interrupted  Storm.  "I've  been  specializ 
ing  in  them  for  a  long  time.  Well?" 

"What  can  we  do  about  it?  How  can  we  put  an  end 
to  all  this?" 

"I'll  tell  you  later.  Meanwhile,  I  want  you  to  re 
member  that  what  I've  told  you  is  only  a  small  part  of 
the  story.  When  you  sum  up  the  totals  for  the  past 
century,  human  reason  fails  to  grasp  the  truth." 

"Don't,  I  pray!"  cried  Murchison,  holding  up  his 
hand.  "I  —  you  —  you've  already  told  us  quite 
enough !" 

"Never   mind,   sir,"   retorted   Storm.       "You   don't 


122         THE  GOLDEN  BLIGHT 

know  the  hundredth  part  of  it  yet ;  and  these  gentlemen 
here  have  perhaps  not  even  considered  the  matter  at  all. 
The  best  available  authorities  give  the  total  killed  in 
war  for  the  past  one  hundred  years  at  about  thirty 
million.  These,  mind  you,  comprising  the  best  and 
strongest  men,  leaving  the  weaklings  to  breed  at 
home.  The  wounded  and  enfeebled  reach  about  one 
hundred  million.  Non-combatants,  women  and  chil 
dren,  killed  come  to  twenty  million  at  a  moderate 
estimate. 

"So  the  grand  total  is  150  million  human  beings 
'actually  slaughtered  or  made  feeble  and  unfit  as  a 
result  of  only  one  hundred  years'  of  "splendid"  and 
"grand"  and  "glorious"  war — 150  million  working- 
class  people.' 

"Your  kind  of  human  beings,  gentlemen?  Hardly! 
For  years  you  people  have  urged  others — " 

"Hold  on  there!"  ejaculated  Wainwright.  "You  for 
get  the  vast  disproportion  between  rich  and  poor.  If 
more  workingmen  than  millionaires  have  been  killed  in 
war,  that's  only  because  millionaires  are  so  compara 
tively  few!" 

Storm  laughed. 

"So?"  answered  he.  "Yes,  of  course.  You  rich 
fellows  are  always  so  eager  to  go  to  the  front!  How 
about  New  York  City's  crack  regiment  of  business  men 
and  millionaires,  many  of  whom  ride  to  their  drills  at 
the  Armory,  in  autos?  When  the  Spanish  war  broke 
out,  did  they  go?  Nothing  doing!  They  voted  not 
to — promptly  and  intelligently  voted  to  stay  right  at 
home,  and  be  safe.  Only  one  member  went,  'for  a 
lark,'  he  said.  He  got  it — in  the  neck.  And  the  pa- 


THE  ULTIMATUM  123 

pers  played  him  up  for  more  space  than  they  gave  a 
thousand  ordinary,  common  soldiers  killed ! 

"No,  indeed,  you  leading  citizens  who  reap  all  the 
bonds  and  bonuses,  you  take  almighty  good  care  to  stay 
discreetly  in  the  rear.  Gad !  but  the  spectacle  is  nause 
ating!  You  'never  will  lead  or  be  led  to  war.'  You 
have  nothing  to  fear  from  hissing  bullets,  burning 
fever,  and  the  death-grip  of  devouring  diseases  in  war. 
You  are  never  found  where  'the  lean,  locked  ranks  go 
roaring  down  to  die!'  The  plain,  cheap  wage-slaves, 
the  common  men,  the  fifteen-dollar-a-week  clerks,  the 
blistered  miners,  the  tanned  railroad  men,  the  grease- 
stained  mechanics,  the  soil-stained  farm  toilers  know 
that  'our  very  best  people,'  decline  all  glorious  oppor 
tunities  to  have  their  smooth,  fat  bodies  exposed  to  the 
steel-belching  machines. 

"You  people  know  how  to  escape  wallowing  in  the 
blood-vats,  how  to  avoid  the  horrid,  rotten-edged,  tet 
anic,  gangrenous  wounds;  the  shells  that,  when  they 
strike,  slough  the  flesh  in  large  masses,  with  muscles 
protruding  through  great  rents  in  the  skin;  the  mad 
ness  that  comes  from  long  exposure  to  the  thundering 
of  siege-guns  or  from  the  sight  of  men  shattered  to 
fragments,  the  feel  of  hot  blood  sprinkled  over  you, 
the  stench  of  the  rotting  bodies  of  your  friends  as  yet 
unburied.  Such  things  are  for  the  common  herd,  not 
for  the  masters  of  Gold. 

"  'The  common  earth  mustn't  drink  up  their  rich, 
aristocratic  blood;  no  rough  army  surgeon  shall  carve 
and  slice  and  saw  "leading  citizens"  and  carelessly  toss 
their  severed  arms  and  legs  into  a  bloody  heap  of  flesh ! 
Certainly  not! 


124         THE  GOLDEN  BLIGHT 

"  'Such  people  as  bankers,  manufacturers,  mine- 
owners,  senators,  congressmen  and  the  like  are  safe. 
Their  blood  is  richer  and  more  sacred  than  the  wage- 
earner's  cheap  red  ooze.  They  keep  well  out  of  dan 
ger — and  clip  coupons — while  the  common  herd  is 
rushed  to  the  front  where  modern  butchering-machin- 
ery  is  ready  to  mow  men  down  by  the  thousands,  and 
befouling  disease  is  ready  to  rot  the  unspilt  blood !' " 

"Enough  there!"  cried  Baker,  his  face  hard  and 
white.  "I  refuse  to  sit  here  and  listen  to  such  out 
rageous,  such  damnable  aspersions  on  patriotism!" 

"You  be  quiet !"  commanded  Storm. 

He  rose  and  stood  before  the  three;  and  at  them  he 
thrust  his  long,  big-knuckled  forefinger,  as  was  his  wont 
when  growing  excited.  "I  haven't  told  you  one  per 
cent,  of  the  truth  yet !  I've  only  outlined  things  to  you. 
You  know  as  well  as  I  do  that  Ridpath  merely  stated  a 
fact  when  he  wrote : 

To  the  capitalist  it  is  all  one  whether  this  world  blooms  with 
gardens,  ripens  with  oranges,  smiles  with  a  harvest  of  wheat, 
or  whether  it  is  trodden  into  mire  and  blood  -under  the  raging 
charges  of  cavalry  and  the  explosion  of  shells;  it  is  all  one  to  him, 
if  his  coupons  are  promptly  paid  and  his  bond  is  extended. 

"And  my  old  finance  professor,  back  in  the  Univer 
sity  of  Michigan,  Professor  Adams — do  you  know  what 
Jie  says — and  says  truly? 

It  has  been  the  immemorial  policy  of  the  money  power  to 
foment  wars  among  nations;  to  edge  on  the  conflict  until  both 
parties  pass  under  the  impending  bankruptcy;  to  buy  up  the 
prodigious  debt  of  both  with  a  pailful  of  gold;  to  raise  the 
debt  to  par;  to  invent  patriotic  proclamations  for  preserving  the 
national  honor;  and  finally  to  hire  the  press  of  two  generations 
to  glorify  a  crime! 


THE  ULTIMATUM  125 

"Rubbish!"  ejaculated  Wainwright,  angrily.  "That's 
all  damned  rot!" 

"Oh,  indeed?"  retorted  Storm.  "And  perhaps  Rus- 
kin  was  indulging  in  rot,  too,  when  he  said : 

Capitalists,  when  they  do  not  know  what  to  do  with  their 
money,  persuade  the  peasants  that  the  said  peasants  want  guns 
to  shoot  each  other  with.  The  peasants  accordingly  borrow 
guns,  out  of  the  manufacture  of  which  the  capitalists  get  a  per 
centage,  and  men  of  science  much  amusement  and  credit.  Then 
the  peasants  shoot  a  certain  number  of  each  other  until  they 
get  tired,  and  burn  each  other's  houses  down  in  various  places. 
Then  they  put  the  guns  back  into  towns,  arsenals,  etc.,  in  orna 
mental  patterns,  and  the  victorious  party  puts  also  some  ragged 
flags  in  churches.  And  then  the  capitalists  tax  both  annually, 
ever  afterwards,  to  pay  interest  on  the  loan  of  the  guns  and 
powder. 

"Such,  gentlemen,  are  some  of  the  facts — some  few 
of  the  facts.  My  ultimatum:  War  must  cease!  It's 
going  to  cease — I'm  going  to  make  it.  You're  in  my 
hands,  you  and  yours  are.  When  I  close  my  hand,  you 
get  squeezed,  that's  all.  Do  you  force  me,  gentlemen, 
or  do  you  yield?" 

And  folding  his  arms,  he  faced  all  three  of  them,  with 
an  expression  far  from  good  to  look  upon. 

Baker  was  the  first  to  frame  an  answer. 

"Suppose,"  said  he,  laboring  to  curb  his  anger,  "sup 
pose  we  admit  everything,  what  then?  What's  your 
program?" 

"This!"  And  Storm  tapped  off  the  items  on  his 
fingers. 

"First,  call  an  international  conference  of  bankers 
and  big  financiers. 

"Second,  insure  widespread  newspaper  publicity  for 


126         THE  GOLDEN  BLIGHT 

all  your  deliberations,  which  will  instantly  fix  public  at 
tention  and  prevent  any  reneging  on  your  part.  I'll 
see  to  the  publicity  end  of  it  all  right  enough. 

"Third,  get  into  cooperation  with  the  Proletarian 
Peace  Secretariat  at  Brussels. 

"Fourth,  adopt  my  graded  plan  for  international 
disarmament. 

"That's  all.  The  alternative:  I  smash  your  gold 
and  the  world's  gold  to  powder ! 

"Your  gold!  Your  'pail  of  gold'  that  buys  the  na 
tions'  lives !  A  pail  of  gold,  condensed  from  a  sea  of 
human  blood!  Brains  don't  rule  to-day.  Intellect  is 
dethroned.  Conscience  has  abdicated.  Soul  is  no 
more.  Honor  is  forgotten.  Common  human  decency 
is  a  thing  of  the  past. 

"Gold !  In  its  train  come  war  and  want,  famine  and 
pestilence,  disease  and  death — child  labor,  unemploy 
ment,  prostitution,  drunkenness,  tyranny,  extortion. 
Gold !  Why,  if  one  of  you  men  should  ever  happen  to 
reach  heaven  by  some  fluke,  you'd  be  like  Mammon  in 
'Paradise  Lost' — 

E'en  in  heaven  his  looks 
Were  always  downward  bent,  admiring  more 
The  riches  of  heaven's  pavement,  trodden  gold, 
Than  aught  divine! 

"Gold,  indeed!  But  now  I've  got  the  whip-hand  of 
you  people.  The  coin  in  your  pockets  and  the  rings 
upon  your  fingers  are  no  easier  for  me  to  annihilate 
than  the  heaped-up  sacks  of  gold  in  the  national  treas 
ury — it's  all  one  to  me ! 

"No  matter  where  gold  is,  I'm  its  master.      I  warn 


THE  ULTIMATUM  127 

you — and,  through  you,  the  whole  capitalist  class  of  the 
entire  world.  I  am  going  to  have  my  way  with  you. 
Mark  that — I'm  going  to  have  it,  to  the  full !" 

He  paused,  took  a  few  steps  along  the  richly-carpeted 
floor,  then  returned  and  gazed  at  the  triumvirate  in 
silence. 

"Well?"  said  he. 

Murchison  was  the  first  to  answer. 

"Surely,"  said  he,  his  voice  trembling  a  little  despite 
him,  "surely  you'll  be  moderately  reasonable.  You 
can't  expect  a  question  of  this  magnitude  to  be  an 
swered  in  a  day,  or  even  in  a  week.  Surely  you'll  give 
us—" 

"I'll  give  you  just  half  an  hour;  just  thirty  minutes, 
to  decide  whether  you'll  take  a  hand  in  stopping  all  this, 
or  not.  For  once,  you  men  are  going  to  be  spoken  to 
by  another  man  on  equal  terms  at  least.  For  once, 
you're  going  to  be  treated  like  ordinary  human  beings, 
not  demigods  on  wheels.  You're  going  to  realize  facts ; 
going  to  toe  the  mark  and  take  another's  will  for  law. 

"There's  no  use  in  delaying  this  affair.  I  don't 
intend  to  have  you  framing  any  crooked,  devious  plans 
to  try  and  checkmate  me — not  by  a  long  shot.  Half 
an  hour  is  time  enough  for  Yes  or  No! 

"It's  now  11.30.  If  you  'phone  me  Yes  by  noon,  all 
well  and  good.  We'll  get  down  to  the  first,  real,  prac 
tical  step.  If  you  say  No,  or  don't  call  me  at  all  be 
fore  then,  look  out !  Incidentally,  my  hours  open  for 
negotiation  with  you  will  be  11.30  to  12,  each  day.  The 
rest  of  the  time,  whatever  happens,  you  needn't  hope 
to  get  any  attention  from  me,  for  I  won't  give  you  any. 
Understand?" 


128         THE  GOLDEN  BLIGHT 

"What — what  do  you — intend — ?"  stammered  Baker. 

"Never  you  mind.  Watch  Wall  Street,  that's  all. 
You  yield,  or  I'll  give  you  a  fifteen-minute  sample  dem 
onstration. 

"And  now,  gentlemen,"  he  continued  more  calmly, 
with  an  enigmatic  ghost  of  a  smile,  "now,  really,  I 
must  be  leaving  you.  I've  got  one  or  two  little  matters 
of  some  importance  to  look  out  for.  Remember,  every 
thing's  up  to  you.  I've  given  you  my  program.  Let 
me  have  yours — by  12,  sharp.  I  bid  you  all  good 
morning !" 

He  bowed  curtly.  Then,  without  another  word,  but 
with  a  look  that  swept  them  all  in  one  common  mis- 
prisal,  he  walked  out  of  the  office. 

And  the  door,  closing  behind  him,  hid  him  from  the 
sight  of  three  of  the  angriest,  most  disconcerted  men 
who  ever  sat  and  plotted  in  the  robber-caves  of  Wall 
Street. 


CHAPTER   XVI 

THE    DEATH    PACT 

FULL  two  minutes  passed  before  a  word  was  spoken. 

Then  Murchison,  tugging  at  his  ragged,  gray  mus 
tache,  said  with  an  ugly  laugh : 

"You  see?  I  reckon  there'll  be  some  lively  happen 
ings  before  long." 

"Just  an  ordinary  lunatic!"  ejaculated  Baker,  with 
a  thin-lipped  smile.  "One  of  the  kind  that  ought  to  be 
put  out  of  the  way  on  general  principles,  pro  bono  pub- 
lico,  and  all  that  sort  of  thing.  The  quicker  we  do  our 
manifest  duty,  gentlemen,  the  better." 

Wainwright  pulled  at  his  cigar,  but  it  was  dead. 
With  an  oath  he  flung  it,  precious  though  it  was,  into 
the  fire.  He  stood  up. 

"Right  you  are,  Secretary,"  he  answered.  "We  were 
pinheads  to  ever  let  him  get  away,  like  that.  We  ought 
to  have  nailed  him,  while  we  had  him.  How?  Cinch! 
A  scrap — a  knock-out — then  a  frame-up.  Self-de 
fense.  We  could  have  put  him  in  the  morgue,  or 
Bellevue,  and  never  batted  an  eye.  Got  away  with  it 
as  easy  as  a  cat  lapping  cream.  But  now — !" 

He  took  a  turn  up  and  down  the  office,  clenching  and 
opening  his  hands,  as  though  the  powerful  fingers  itched 
to  be  at  Storm's  throat. 

"I  guess  he  means  to  force  our  hand,"  said  Mur- 

129 


130          THE  GOLDEN  BLIGHT 

chison.  "There  doesn't  seem  to  be  any  probability  of 
compromising.  Any  fool  with  half  an  eye  could  see 
he's  'way  out  of  the  line  of  bribery  or  graft.  I  diag 
nose  him  as  a  monomaniac  of  a  particularly  visionary 
type.  The  only  thing  to  do  is  stamp  him  out — at 
once !" 

"Bump  him  off,  quick !  That's  the  talk !"  chimed  in 
the  copper  czar.  "Put  the  Blackertons  onto  him — 
they'll  do  the  job,  and  nobody  the  wiser!" 

"Shhh!"  cautioned  the  billionaire,  glancing  round, 
nervously.  "Not  so  loud !  Still,  it  ought  to  be  clearly 
realized  by  all  three  of  us  that  the  emergency 'is  un 
speakably  vital.  Under  the  circumstances,  the  death- 
penalty  for  any  one  of  us  who  by  word  or  look  or  sign, 
directly  or  indirectly,  divulges  this  secret  to  any  human 
being  whatsoever,  would  be  a  mighty  small  punishment. 
I,  for  one,  seal  my  mouth  and  numb  my  hand  against 
any  such  divulgence.  And  I  swear  this,  gentlemen, 
with  all  the  earnestness  of  my  being.  We  three  hold  the 
world  in  our  hands  to-day.  We  three  must  save  it! 
Nobody  can  help  us;  nobody  can  advise.  We  must 
decide  right  here,  this  very  morning.  And  what  we  all 
agree  on,  we  must  do  !" 

For  a  moment  no  one  spoke.    Then  said  Wainwright : 

"I  guess  I  know  a  thing  or  two  about  'direct  action,' 
as  it's  called,  if  it  comes  right  down  to  a  scrap.  And 
all  I  know  is  at  your  disposal.  If  you've  got  to  hit, 
hit  only  once,  and  hard;  that's  my  say,  and  to  Hell 
with  the  Constitution!  When  it  comes  to  a  frame-up, 
I'm  there  with  the  goods.  I  haven't  been  through  a 
dozen  strikes  without  learning  a  whole  lot.  You  re 
member  how  I  handled  that  Coatli  Valley  strike  in  '99? 


THE  DEATH  PACT  131 

They  wouldn't  mine  gold  for  me,  the  sons  of  dogs,  so 
I  gave  'em  the  lead  treatment.  They  started  in  talking 
about  their  rights  and  the  law  and  all  that  line  of 
bunk.  They  even  had  the  nerve  to  put  up  the  flag  over 
their  tents — the  American  flag — what  d'you  know  about 
that?  Did  I  argue  or  arbitrate?  The  Hell  I  did! 
I  turned  about  six  hundred  gunmen  in  there  with  a 
dozen  Maxims — and  the  men  went  back  to  work,  on 
my  terms — what  were  left  of  'em !  We  spaded  in  about 
seventy-five,  in  all,  counting  the  women  and  their  brats. 
No  more  strikes  there;  no  more  Constitution  or  flags, 
you  bet ' 

"And  that  little  mix-up  with  the  Rio  Hondo  bunch? 
Huh !  After  I  flooded  the  two  lower  galleries,  that  was 
settled  mighty  quick!  I  bet  the  survivors  are  talking 
about  that  unfortunate  accident  to  the  pumping- 
machinery  even  yet!  Oh,  it  broke  the  strike,  all  right 
enough.  Total  expense  to  me:  Pumping  the  galleries 
dry  again,  and  paying  for  two  hundred  and  thirty-six 
pine  coffins,  cheap  by  the  dozen. 

"Leave  Storm  to  me,  gentlemen.  We'll  soon  have 
an  end  to  all  this  bunk  and  chatter !" 

Then  Murchison  spoke: 

"You  forget,"  said  he,  "that  if  he's  done  away  with, 
or  even  molested,  he'll  leave  things  working  in  such  a 
way  that — " 

"You  believe  that,  do  you?"  spoke  up  Baker.  "Well, 
say — look  here,  Murchison,  I'll  take  my  chance,  so  far 
as  I'm  concerned,  with  any  of  his  posthumous  activities. 
There's  a  good  old  French  maxim,  'Kill  the  beast  and 
you  kill  the  poison,'  that  fits  in  here  to  a  T !" 

"I  don't  know  French,"  broke  in  Wainwright,  "but 


132          THE  GOLDEN  BLIGHT 

I  know  U.  S.  A.,  and  my  motto  is  Slug!"  He  turned 
on  Murchison.  "Afraid  he'll  bite  you  after  he's  dead, 
are  you?"  he  gibed.  "Where's  your  nerve?  Ain't 
getting  old,  are  you?" 

The  billionaire  flushed  slightly  at  the  taunt,  but 
made  no  answer. 

"I  think  you're  right,"  said  the  Secretary  of  War. 
"You've  analyzed  the  situation  correctly.  Legal  means 
won't  reach  him.  An  insanity  commission  or  an  arrest 
and  conviction  on  any  charge  would  get  this  into  the 
papers  and  play  the  deuce  with  everything.  We  can't 
handle  a  cobra  according  to  law.  The  only  thing  to 
do  is  smash  its  head  with  the  first  thing  that  comes  to 
hand!" 

Murchison  coughed  uneasily. 

"You  forget  the  immediate  and  pressing  question, 
my  friends,"  said  he.  "We've  already  wasted  ten 
minutes  of  our  time  of  grace.  At  12,  sharp,  unless 
we  capitulate  in  the  meantime  and  enter  into  further 
pourparlers  with  him,  he  means  to  spring  some  kind 
of  a  coup  on  us. 

"What  he  means  to  do,  I  don't  know,  but  I  reckon 
it  will  be  mighty  painful.  That  experience  at  the  little 
dinner  out  at  Edgecliff  hasn't  made  me  over-anxious  to 
try  any  encores.  In  view  of  possible  contingencies, 
wouldn't  it  be  the  part  of  wisdom  at  least  to  call  him 
up,  when  we  calculate  he's  home  again,  and  tell  him 
we're  ready  to  concede  something?" 

"Concede  nothing !"  shouted  Wainwright.  "No  more 
stalling  on  this  game!  Send  a  slugger  up  there  to 
'get'  him,  would  be  my  way.  A  little  strong-arm  work 
is  what  I  vote  for,  P.  D.  Q. !  There's  no  such  thing 


THE  DEATH  PACT  133 

as  mutual  concession,  with  a  mule  like  him!  He 
wants  it  all,  or  nothing.  /  know  the  type ! 

"No,  sir,  there's  nothing  doing  with  diplomacy  now. 
Let  the  lunatic  do  his  worst,  that's  all.  Inside  of 
twenty-four  hours  he's  through.  Let  him  go  it  while  he 
can.  That's  my  last  word!" 

"Right!"  exclaimed  Baker,  nodding  vigorously. 
"You're  clearly  in  the  minority,  Mr.  Murchison. 
There  can't  be  any  further  negotiations.  All  that  re 
mains  to  do  now,  is  to  choose — er — the  means,  and — 
h-m! — the  person." 

"Leave  it  to  me!"  exclaimed  Wainwright,  snapping 
his  jaws.  "I'll  settle  him  and  do  it  right.  And  if 
there's  any  trace  or  clue,  if  he  doesn't  just  simply  drop 
out  and  vanish,  like  a  pebble  down  a  mine-shaft,  you 
two  are  free  to  blow  the  game  and  send-  me  to  the 
chair !" 

Murchison  laughed  and  caressed  his  chin. 

"You  always  did  like  a  joke,  Andrew,"  said  he. 
"That  sort  of  thing  doesn't  happen  to — to  us,  you 
know.  Still,  it  might  be  embarrassing  if  anything 
leaked  out. 

"Of  course,  I'm  not  doubting  your  ability,  and  all 
that ;  but  I've  had  a  little  experience  myself  in  handling 
men,  and  I  reckon  maybe  I've  got  a  few  ideas.  The 
fairest  way,  all  things  considered,  will  be  for  us  to 
ballot  for  the — the  job,  eh?  Then,  whatever  happens, 
there  can  be  no  come-back,  no  if's,  and's,  or  but's." 

Speaking,  he  had  drawn  some  letters  from  his  breast 
pocket.  He  tore  from  one  of  these  a  half  sheet  of 
blank  paper.  This  he  creased  and  neatly  divided  into 
three  small  slips  of  equal  size. 


134          THE  GOLDEN  BLIGHT 

He  took  his  fountain  pen— a  plain  rubber-barrel 
now,  with  a  platinum  pen-point— and  removed  the  cap. 
The  two  men,  watching,  saw  his  hand  move  as  though 
making  a  little  cross  on  one  of  the  slips  of  paper. 

"I've  marked  one  ballot,"  announced  Murchison. 
"I  drop  them  into  this  hat  of  yours,  Mr.  Baker." 

Leaning  forward,  he  took  the  tall  silk  hat  from  the 
top  of  the  unit  book-case  where  it  stood.  "I  now  hold 
this  hat  above  the  level  of  your  eyes,  so.  The  man 
who  gets  the  marked  ballot  is  elected  to  the  high  honor 
of  freeing  the  world  of  the  most  dangerous  calamity 
that  has  ever  threatened  it. 

"But,  note  this !  Whoever  it  may  be,  says  no  word ! 
Not  a  word,  gentlemen ;  not  a  sign !  The  two  who  lose, 
must  never  know  who  the  favored  one  really  is!  Do 
you  understand?" 

"I  get  you,  Van,"  answered  Wainwright.  "Come  on, 
let's  go  to  it !" 

Baker  nodded  comprehension. 

"So  you  see,"  continued  the  billionaire,  with  a  smile, 
"what  will  happen  is  just  this:  Storm  disappears,  and 
only  the  man  here  who  does  the  job  knows  how.  He 
alone  knows  who  the  savior  of  society  really  is.  This 
will  keep  all  parties  concerned  from  even  the  trifling 
discomfort  that  might  result  were  the  ballot  known. 
You  get  the  idea?  Yes? 

"All  right.  I  reckon  we're  ready  for  business  then. 
Draw,  gentlemen !" 

In  silence  they  thrust  their  hands  up  and  into  the 
hat,  first  Baker,  then  Wainwright.  Each,  holding  his 
slip  concealed  in  his  palm,  glanced  at  it— Baker,  with 
nervous  haste,  paling  a  trifle ;  the  copper  czar  eagerly. 


THE  DEATH  PACT  135 

Murchison  took  the  remaining  slip,  gave  a  look, 
crumpled  the  bit  of  paper  and  tossed  it  into  the  fire. 
It  smoked,  flared,  and  vanished,  a  gray  ash. 

At  sight  of  the  ash,  he  started  slightly,  but  his  face 
was  masldike  in  its  non-committal  calm. 

The  three  men  silently  gazed  at  one  another;  and  in 
their  eyes  already  a  strange,  furtive  suspicion  lurked. 
You  might  have  said  they  were  seeking  each  to  fathom 
the  other's  thoughts. 

Had  Baker  and  Wainwright  been  able  to  read  the 
billionaire's,  this  is  what  they  would  have  seen: 

"Infernally  good  idea  of  mine  that  was,  to  leave 
all  three  of  the  slips  blank,  eli?  For  now  they  are  both 
out  of  the  game.  Now  I've  got  carte  blanche — now  7, 
and  I  alone,  can  deal  with  Storm  in  my  own  way!" 

But  there  was  little  time  for  reflection.  For  as  they 
stood  there,  the  big  clock  over  the  fireplace  chimed 
twelve  strokes. 

And  hardly  had  the  echo  died,  when,  down  below  in 
the  street,  far,  faint  and  vague,  yet  steadily  growing 
louder  and  more  ominous,  a  sound  was  already  audible. 

A  sound — the  sound  of  men  in  turmoil,  of  confusion, 
fear,  panic. 

A  sound  the  like  of  which  none  of  them  ever  yet  had 
heard — a  sound  that  shot  them  through  with  sudden 
apprehension. 

With  a  brutal  curse,  Wainwright  sprang  toward  the 
window  and  peered  far  down. 

"Blue  Hell!"  he  shouted.  "Noon  already — and 
Storm's  at  his  work !  At  his  work,  down  there  in  Wall 
Street!" 


CHAPTER  XVII 

PANIC  ! 

THE  copper  czar  was  no  sooner  at  the  window  than 
Baker  and  Murchison  joined  him.  With  a  feverish, 
impatient  hand  the  billionaire  ripped  the  curtains 
aside.  And  the  triumvirate  peered  out. 

Such  was  the  vantage  of  the  office  that  nearly  the 
whole  length  of  Wall  Street,  eastward  from  Broad,  lay 
there  before  them  like  a  map.  The  curve  of  Broad, 
too,  gave  them  a  partial  view  of  it  almost  to  Beaver. 

Diagonally  across  from  them,  the  low,  massive,  iron- 
barred  Sub-Treasury  squatted  over  the  incredible  hoard 
in  its  vaults,  like  a  grim  and  fabulous  bird  brooding 
a  nest  of  gigantic  golden  eggs. 

Further  down,  the  three  plutocrats  could  see  the 
fluted  columns  of  the  City  Bank  facade.  Within  their 
field  of  vision  lay  the  vast  central  aorta  of  the  whole 
world's  money  system.  And  in  this  pulsing  artery 
they  saw  at  once  that  some  very  grave  disorder  was 
at  work. 

At  first  glance  it  was  impossible  to  analyze  any 
thing,  to  disentangle  the  complex  elements,  to  gain  an 
adequate  conception  of  that  swiftly  growing  panic. 

The  Street  was,  indeed,  not  yet  very  conspicuously 
crowded.  So  far  as  that  was  concerned,  one  might 

136 


PANIC!  137 

have  thought  the  usual  noon-hour  throng  was  hardly 
doubled  down  Wall  and  along  Broad. 

What  struck  the  senses  was  rather  the  intense  agi 
tation  of  the  individuals  composing  that  mass — the 
quickly  forming  and  as  rapidly  dissolving  groups  and 
knots  that  swirled,  stopped,  eddied,  and  struggled  on, 
now  this  way  and  now  that,  aimlessly;  the  loud  and 
ever-increasing  tumult  of  voices,  cries,  jeers,  yells, 
oaths  that,  as  Murchison  threw  up  the  window,  swelled 
into  a  hoarse  and  terror-smitten  roar,  the  mob-roar  of 
frightened,  uncomprehending  men. 

Already  the  mob-psychology  was  at  work — terror 
stimulating  terror,  reason  swept  away,  the  thousands 
lashing  themselves  into  blind  panic. 

"Look!  See  that  chap;  gone  mad,  I  swear!"  ejacu 
lated  Baker,  pointing,  as  he  seized  Wainwright's  arm. 
"Nobody  but  a  madman  runs  like  that!" 

The  others  looked. 

There,  rushing  where  a  free  space  offered,  fighting 
his  way  along  with  blasphemies  where  the  crowd  im 
peded,  a  hatless  man,  perfectly  out  of  his  senses,  was 
making  way  directly  toward  them. 

The  coat  was  well  nigh  torn  from  his  back.  Both 
hands  were  raised  and  shaking;  his  face,  as  they 
glimpsed  it,  showed  white  and  set  and  staring. 

They  saw  his  mouth  open  and  close,  close  and  open, 
as  he  yelled;  but  no  word  reached  them.  Then,  all  at 
once,  he  vanished ;  and  the  mob  passed  over  and  obliter 
ated  him. 

Murchison  pursed  his  lips  in  a  long,  low  whistle. 

"I  know  him!"  cried  he,  in  a  shaken  voice.  "Why, 
that  was  Carter — Carter,  of  the  Butchers'  and  Drovers* 


138         THE  GOLDEN  BLIGHT 

National!     And  he  had  a  leather  belt  on;  he  had  a 
satchel.     Didn't  you  see  it?" 

"Going  to  make  a  deposit — gold!  All  gone — lost — 
only  ashes  left!  My  gold,  in  part!  My  gold!  My 
God!" 

"Yes,  it's  your  God,  all  right !"  sneered  Wainwright. 
"You  certainly  hit  it  that  time,  Van !" 

Baker  gasped,  but  found  no  word  to  speak. 

"No  wonder  the  wretch  went  wild,"  muttered  Wain- 
Wright.  "But— see  there!" 

He  pointed  at  the  steps  of  the  Sub-Treasury. 

There,  a  well-dressed  man,  also  hatless,  was  on  his 
knees,  clawing  at  the  stones.  They  got  only  one 
glimpse  of  him,  before  he,  too,  was  swept  away. 

Another  man,  two  men,  five,  they  saw,  kneeling  here 
and  there,  some  on  the  sidewalks,  others  in  the  gutter. 
Still  others  were  clutching  at  their  cravats,  staring 
at  their  hands,  even  turning  their  pockets  inside  out, 
as  the  hurly-burly  jostled  them  along. 

"The  fools!"  sneered  Baker.  "Thinking  of  their 
own  petty  losses;  the  dribbling  ash  that's  leaked  out 
through  their  pockets  or  fallen  from  their  rings  or 
pins,  when  Hell's  to  pay !" 

Murchison  turned  and  ran  to  a  table  at  the  other 
side  of  the  room.  He  jerked  open  a  drawer  and  hastily 
snatched  out  a  magnificent  pair  of  prism-binoculars 
that  at  times  he  used  for  diversion,  to  watch  the  river 
and  the  harbor  with. 

Back  at  the  window  with  them,  he  quickly  adjusted 
the  lenses.  Then  he  leaned  both  elbows  on  the  sill,  and 
sighted  down  into  the  howling  pack  below. 

He  was  not  the  first  to  think  of  glasses.     Already 


PANIC!  139 

half  a  dozen  pairs  were  visible  at  different  windows  up 
and  down  the  two  streets  affected  by  the  Blight. 

And  every  window  was  already  crowded.  Most  were 
open.  Brokers,  clerks,  stenographers,  all  were  leaning 
out;  bank-president  jostled  messenger,  and  financier 
elbowed  telephone-girl  in  the  perfect  democracy  of  sud 
den  excitement ;  even  here  and  there  upon  the  roofs 
and  along  the  cornices,  men  were  creeping,  holding  on 
at  perilous  heights  and  peering  with  extended  necks 
and  pale,  anxious  faces.  And  every  door  of  every 
office-building  was  spewing  out  crowds.  Torrents  of 
anxious  or  sensation-seeking  men  and  women  were  qas- 
cading  through  the  swiftly-whirling  revolving  doors, 
out  into  the  rapidly-increasing  jam  upon  the  street. 

"Fire!  Fire!  Where's  the  fire?"  hundreds  were 
.shouting.  "What's  the  riot  about?  Who's  killed? 
Police !  Police  r 

Somewhere,  out  of  the  range  of  vision,  sounded  the 
brazen  clang !  clang !  clang !  of  an  ambulance-gong. 

"I  reckon  somebody's  hurt,  or  fainted,"  said  Mur- 
chison,  passing  the  glasses  to  Wainwright.  "Here,  you 
take  a  peek.  Think  of  the  destruction  that  lunatic  has 
let  loose !" 

Down  below,  in  front  of  the  Exchange,  a  louder 
tumult  rose. 

Wainwright  leaned  far  out,  to  look. 

"Fight,"  he  announced,  laconically.  "Looks  like 
somebody  had  accused  somebody  else  of  pocket-picking. 
Holy  cats !  What  a  wallop !  Ah !  Now  the  cop,  eh?" 
And  in  spite  of  his  wrath,  he  chuckled ;  for  Wainwright 
loved  a  knock-down  row. 

The  other  two,  looking  where  he  pointed,  saw  a  blue- 


140         THE  GOLDEN  BLIGHT 

coat  breasting  through  the  surge  of  the  mob.  The 
long  stick  rose  and  fell,  rose  and  fell  again;  and  men 
went  down  at  every  blow.  Then  on  the  run  a  squad 
of  reserves  came  pushing. 

A  revolver  squibbed.  Rose  a  yell.  The  crowd  broke 
and  ran — a  shoving,  howling,  frenzied  horde. 

And,  hardly  a  moment  later,  with  a  clatter  of  hoofs, 
a  patrol  arrived.  Some  one  was  bundled  in;  then  a 
limp  figure  was  half-dragged,  half-lifted  up  and  van 
ished  in  the  Black  Maria. 

Dense,  now,  the  press  was,  angry  and  wild  and  brutal 
ized  with  fear. 

A  shrill,  howling  voice  pierced  through  the  tumult. 

"See  there!"  snapped  Murchispn.  "The  inevitable 
prophet !" 

Up  on  to  the  pedestal  of  the  Washington  statue,  in 
front  of  the  Sub-Treasury,  a  gaunt,  disheveled  man 
had  climbed.  Hanging  on  with  his  left  hand,  he  waved 
his  right  in  frenzied  gyrations.  Now  he  shook  his  fist 
at  the  swift-gathering  audience,  now  vibrated  it  at  the 
tall  office-buildings  all  about,  now  raised  a  shaking 
forefinger  to  heaven. 

It  was  all  plain  enough,  even  though  his  words  were 
lost.  The  three  watchers  understood. 

Wainwright  laughed,  as  he  squinted  through  the 
binoculars. 

"He's  certainly  giving  them  blazes,"  announced  he. 
"And — funny! — there's  a  listener  who's  just  lost  his 
gold  cuff-buttons.  He's  clawing  around  for  them. 
The  Wrath  to  Come  doesn't  interest  him  any  more ! 
And — now  the  police,  again ! 

"There — see  the  prophet  fight!"   continued   Wain- 


PANIC!  141 

wright.  "Ah!  Now  he's  kicking  at  their  hands — now 
they've  got  him !  He's  down.  There  he  goes !  Ninety 
days  for  him,  all  right." 

"Ninety  years  would  be  better,"  snarled  the  Secre 
tary  of  War.  "If  we  had  the  soldiers  we  need,  and 
the  guns,  we'd  soon  put  an  end  to  such  infernal  rubbish. 

"Give  me  a  single  Maxim,  up  here — " 

"Good  work!  They've  got  a  hose  on  the  mob!" 
And  Wain  wright  bellowed  with  joy  as  a  squad  of  fire 
men,  battling  down  Nassau,  began  ripping  into  the  mob 
with  swift  white  water.  The  crowd  dissolved,  with 
terrific  uproar,  only  to  form  still  further  down. 

"Give  me  one  Maxim,  I  repeat,"  continued  Baker, 
"and  I,  personally,  would  guarantee  to  clear  the  Street 
in  five  minutes.  Five?  Three?  A  good  Gatling 
would  be  even  better.  It  throws  eighteen  hundred 
nickel-steel  projectiles  a  minute,  and  every  one  can  rip 
through  ten  men !  The  swine !  Td  teach  'em !" 

"You  forget,"  said  Murchison,  "that  these  are  not 
the  rabble!  We're  not  on  the  Bowery,  now — this  is 
Wall  Street!" 

"That's  right,"  acknowledged  Baker.  "I  forgot. 
But  never  fear,  there'll  be  rioting  all  over  the  city. 
Guns  will  be  needed,  all  right. 

"You  see  now,  Murchison,  see  with  your  own  eyes, 
what  you  big  financiers  must  back  me  in?  I  hope  this 
lesson  won't  be  lost  on  you?  We  need  Gatlings  in 
every  police-station  in  New  York  and  all  our  cities — 
we  need  loop-holes  and  towers — every  bit  of  stone 
paving  should  come  up,  and  wooden  blocks  go  down. 
Barricades  of  wood  are  no  good  against  machine  guns. 

"We   need   a   hard-hitting,   straight-shooting   State 


14.2         THE  GOLDEN  BLIGHT 

Constabulary  all  over  the  country.  One  of  these  days 
you're  going  to  regret  it  bitterly  that  we  haven't  got  an 
army  of  five  million  men  here  in  America.  Why,  any 
fool  of  a  farmer  knows  he's  got  to  have  a  long,  sharp 
goad  to  drive  oxen  with !" 

"I  reckon  that's  right,  too,"  answered  the  billion 
aire.  "Well — we'll  see,  we'll  see,  at  once!  But  there's 
Ho  use  watching  this  cage  of  insane  monkeys  any 
longer.  It's  cold  at  the  window.  Enough !  To  work !" 

The  Secretary  and  Wainwright  drew  back  into  the 
room.  Murchison  closed  the  window. 

"Damned  good  scrap,  all  round!"  approved  Wain 
wright  with  enjoyment.  "Only  it  was  too  much  water 
and  not  enough  claret.  Well,  there'll  be  claret  enough, 
later,  once  we  get  at  Storm !" 

Deadened  now,  the  noise  of  the  panic  rose  only  as 
a  dull  hum  to  their  ears. 

"This  session  is  ended,"  announced  the  billionaire. 
"Even  before  Storm's  fifteen-minute  gambit  is  ended, 
I  move  we  begin  the  checkmate." 

"Agreed !"  said  Wainwright. 

"That's  the  talk!"  Baker  assented.  "Come,  let's  be 
going." 

A  couple  of  minutes  later  they  were  ready  for  the 
street. 

"To  work!"  repeated  Murchison,  as,  all  together, 
they  left  the  warmth  and  luxury  of  his  office. 


CHAPTER  XVIII 

THROUGH    THE    MAELSTROM 

INTO  the  outer,  the  active  business  office,  they  passed. 
Already  Murchison  was  thinking. 

"This  puts  the  seal  on  the  death  sentence.  Has 
Storm  attacked  the  Sub-Treasury  board  yet?  Heaven 
forbid!  No  matter;  even  if  he  hasn't,  he's  done.  If 
he  had  stayed  his  hand  before  precipitating  this  riot, 
he  might  have  been  spared.  But  now,  now  that  the 
secret's  out,  now  that  he's  tried  to  stampede  us  by 
throwing  down  the  gauntlet,  we  fight.  Storm  has  got 
to  die!" 

He  shook  hands  with  the  other  two  conspirators. 
And  though  all  three  of  them  assumed  cordiality,  yet 
that  secret,  lurking  unspoken  repulsion  smoldered  in 
their  eyes. 

Who  was  to  be  executioner?  The  question,  in  spite 
of  them,  oppressed  both  men  who  did  not  know.  With 
a  forced  ease  they  took  their  departure. 

"To-morrow  at  this  time,  shall  we  meet  here?"  asked 
Murchison,  bowing  them  out.  "I  assure  you,  by  that 
time,  the  matter  will  be  definitely  settled.  Good-day. 
Good-by!" 

When  they  were  gone,  he  had  his  hat  and  coat 
brought,  ordered  his  car  from  his  private  garage  on 

William  Street,  and  in  a  few  minutes — leaving  word 

143 


THE  GOLDEN  BLIGHT 

that  he  might  not  be  back  that  day — went  down  in  the 
elevator. 

Already,  by  the  time  he  reached  the  secure  comfort 
of  his  limousine,  the  newsboys'  shrill  cries  were  echoing 
through  the  cracks  and  gashes  that  New  York  calls  her 
down-town  streets. 

"Hextry!  Hex-try \  Mystery  hits  Wall  Street! 
Gold  melts  like  snow !  Here  y'are !  All  about  de  Blight 
o'Gold!  Hextry!  HexJr^." 

Murchison  leaned  out  of  the  window  of  his  machine. 

"Boy !     Boy !" 

He  took  all  the  papers  that  the  swirling,  snatching 
throngs  had  left  the  lad,  counted  them  quickly,  and 
paid  over  the  exact  price,  sixteen  cents ;  then  ordered : 

"Thomas,  drive  up  Nassau,  past  the  newspaper 
offices.  I  want  to  see  the  bulletins." 

"Yes,  sir." 

The  car  vibrated  with  the  acceleration  of  its  power 
ful  engine.  Then,  grumbling,  it  moved  slowly  away 
from  the  curb,  and,  plowing  like  one  of  Alexander's 
battle-chariots  through  the  Persian  hordes,  began  to 
make  way  up  Nassau. 

Eagerly  Murchison's  eyes,  blinking  behind  their 
silver-bowed  spectacles,  devoured  the  scare-heads,  read 
here  a  line,  then  a  paragraph,  and,  with  ever-growing 
anger,  glanced  up  at  the  all  but  impassable  swarms 
that  packed  the  narrow  streets. 

"Lucky  I'm  getting  away  from  the  office  so  soon," 
thought  he,  as  the  car  stopped  at  the  corner  of  Liberty. 
"A  few  minutes  more  and  telephone  messages,  tele 
grams,  and  reporters  by  the  hundred  would  have  been 
piling  in  on  me.  Nothing  to  say,  of  course;  but  no 


THROUGH  THE  MAELSTROM      145 

matter  what  I  might  have  said,  or  refused  to  say,  it 
would  have  gone  into  type  a  foot  high. 

"Better,  all  around,  if  I'm  not  visible  just  now.  I 
reckon  my  game,  and  Wainwright's,  and  the  game  of 
all  us  fellows,  will  be  just  to  lay  low  till  this  insane 
spasm  of  terror  dies  down  a  little." 

He  reached  out  and  pulled  the  curtains  of  the  car, 
leaving,  however,  a  two-inch  space  to  peek  through. 

But  the  car,  which  had  succeeded  in  making  another 
block  northward,  now  again  came  to  a  dead  halt  at  the 
intersection  of  Maiden  Lane. 

Not  only  financiers  and  their  henchmen,  stenograph 
ers  and  brokers  and  petty  clerks,  were  thronging 
through  the  streets,  but  already  thousands  of  curiosity 
seekers,  and  other  thousands,  impelled  by  hot  hopes  of 
picking  up  substantial  treasures  in  the  gutters  of  Wall 
and  Broad,  were  momently  arriving  by  electric,  by 
Subway,  and  on  foot. 

For  the  wildest  rumors  had  already  spread,  wavelike, 
with  incredible  rapidity  all  over  Manhattan  and  the 
outlying  districts. 

Reports  had  already  reached  a  million  or  more 
people  that  the  financial  area  had  been  wiped  out  by 
earthquake;  that  a  deep  vein  of  solid  gold  had  been 
uncovered  in  Wall  Street  by  laborers  blasting  for  tele 
phone-conduit  work ;  that  a  huge  force  of  Blackhanders 
had  looted  the  Sub-Treasury,  and  that,  fleeing,  they 
had  been  forced  to  drop  their  gold;  that  a  sewer-gas 
explosion  had  scattered  untold  wealth  in  bullion  and 
diamonds  over  half  a  dozen  streets ;  that  an  unknown 
billionaire  had  suddenly  gone  mad  and  was  showering 
gold-pieces  by  the  bushel  out  of  his  office  windows. 


146          THE  GOLDEN  BLIGHT 

Some  of  these  canards  even  got  into  the  columns  of 
the  yellower  journals,  whose  sales  went  into  the 
millions  of  copies.  Practically  everything  was  told, 
repeated,  exaggerated,  telephoned,  telegraphed, 
printed,  except  the  plain  truth — that  a  fifteen-minute 
Blight,  ending  as  suddenly  as  it  had  begun,  had  fallen 
on  all  gold  coin  and  objects  on  the  street-level  of  Wall 
and  Broad,  for  a  space  of  three  blocks  east  and  south 
of  their  juncture. 

Already,  by  the  time  Murchison's  car  reached 
Maiden  Lane,  more  than  four  thousand  five  hundred 
police — regular,  special,  plain-clothes,  and  mounted — 
had  been  poured  into  the  district  with  all  the  speed 
with  which  riot-calls  could  bring  them. 

Cordons  were  immediately  established  down  Broad 
way  and  Whitehall,  through  Stone  to  Hanover  Square, 
up  Pearl  and  across  John  to  Broadway  again,  with 
positive  orders  to  let  no  more  private  persons  enter  the 
district,  under  any  pretext  whatsoever.  Only  a  police 
permit  or  proof  of  official  character  were  to  be 
recognized. 

"Shoot  to  kill !"  the  order  had  been  given,  in  case  of 
looting. 

Yet,  in  spite  of  all  this,  and  of  six  fire  companies 
added  also  for  possible  use  in  case  of  conflagration  or 
to  repel  mobs  by  the  use  of  the  hose,  should  need  arise ; 
in  spite  of  every  emergency  precaution,  it  is  estimated 
that  probably  one  hundred  thousand  persons,  perhaps 
one  hundred  and  fifty  thousand,  succeeded  in  invading 
the  proscribed  area  before  the  lid,  so  to  speak,  had 
been  clamped  down. 

The  whole  lower  end  of  Manhattan  was  now  a  roar- 


THROUGH  THE  MAELSTROM      147 

ing,  howling,  fighting  maelstrom  of  humanity.  Com 
petent  observers  reported,  later,  having  heard  the 
tumult  as  far  down  the  Bay  as  Staten  Island. 

The  lure  of  possible  gold,  of  excitement,  of  wonder 
and  mystery  and  adventure-lust  worked  as  a  magnet 
works  on  steel-filings.  Inside  the  cordon,  the  throng 
was  dense;  outside,  it  was  solid. 

Murchison  soon  discovered  that  there  was  no  possible 
exit  from  the  district,  which  now  was  held  as  in  a  state 
of  siege.  No  efforts  of  the  police  to  disperse  the  mul 
titudes  and  drive  them  away,  seemed  to  have  the  slight 
est  effect. 

Gold!  Gold!  The  obsession  quivered  through  the 
very  air.  Gold!  A  kind  of  temporary  madness 
gripped  the  people.  They  fought  together,  knowing 
not  why,  save  that  each  unit,  each  striving  human  be 
ing  hoped  some  wondrous  treasure  might  fall  to  his 
hand. 

Everybody  was  trying  to  get  in;  nobody  wanted  to 
go  out.  Before  the  police  began  to  control  the  "L" 
exit  at  Hanover  Square,  fully  twenty  thousand  persons 
must  have  got  in  by  that  means.  Thousands  gained 
access  to  the  area  through  buildings  and  cellars,  mak 
ing  their  way  by  devious  passages.  Many  made  their 
way  in  even  over  fire-escapes  and  planks  latid  across 
dizzy  chasms.  Some  crept  in  through  telephone-tun 
nels  and  sewers.  Later  reports  state  that  more  than 
a  dozen  entered  by  aeroplane,  from  various  outer 
points,  alighting  on  the  tops  of  tall  office-buildings, 
and  making  their  way  down  the  roof-stairs  to  the  hall 
ways  and  elevators. 

Innumerable    accidents    and    cases    of    fainting    oc- 


148         THE  GOLDEN  BLIGHT 

curred.  Two  hundred  or  more  persons  were  seriously 
crushed  or  otherwise  injured  in  half  an  hour;  and  eight 
fatalities  are  known  to  have  occurred ;  yet  for  the  most 
part  the  police  ambulances  could  not  get  through. 

Wine-shops  and  saloons  were  raided.  Great  ex 
cesses  took  place.  Hundreds  of  windows  were  smashed 
in,  and  loot  incalculable  was  ravished  therefrom,  es 
pecially  on  Maiden  Lane,  center  of  the  jewelry  trade. 
The  sum-total  of  fighting  and  pocket-picking  will 
never  be  known.  In  a  word,  Pandemonium  burst  over 
New  York,  and  for  a  while  Hell  broke  loose. 

Under  such  circumstances,  small  wonder  that  Mur- 
chison's  machine  made  slow  progress. 

"Thomas !"  shouted  the  billionaire  into  the  speaking- 
tube;  for  the  roaring  tumult  precluded  all  possibility 
of  otherwise  making  himself  heard.  "No  use  trying  to 
go  up  Nassau.  Better  get  across  Broadway,  if  you 
can.  You  must  find  some  way  out  of  here !" 

"Yes,  sir,"  came  the  chauffeur's  reply,  though  Mur- 
chison  could  not  hear  him.  He  nodded,  and  the  raucous 
yell  of  the  siren  preceded  a  slight  forward  movement 
of  the  machine. 

Slowly,  inch  by  inch,  more  often  not  moving  at  all, 
then  gaming  a  little  through  the  pack  of  fighting, 
howling  men,  the  huge  machine  pushed  along  Maiden 
Lane. 

Here  Murchison  got  his  first  actual  sight  of  mob- 
violence.  Some  of  the  jewelers  had  already  managed 
to  get  up  shutters  and  barricades;  but  the  crashing 
of  glass  and  the  swirl  of  looters  horrified  the  billion 
aire.  He  caught  disjointed  glimpses  of  battle — here 
a  policeman  striking,  there  a  man  pitching  headlong; 


THROUGH  THE  MAELSTROM      149 

/ 

again,  proprietors  with  revolvers  holding  the  crowd  at 
bay  while  frenzied  employees  nailed  up  rough  boards 
over  gaping  apertures.  He  saw  blood  flowing,  too — 
then,  terrified,  cringed  back  into  the  car  and  pulled 
the  curtains  tight. 

"Merciful  God!"  stammered  he.  "If — if  they  knew 
7  was  in  this  car — !" 

Now  the  limousine  had  won  past  Liberty  Place,  and 
Broadway  was  drawing  nearer. 

"Go  on,  Thomas!  Go  on!"  shouted  Murchison, 
quaking  and  cowering.  His  soul  weltered  with  rage 
and  fear  and  hate — fear  for  himself  and  his  own  pre 
cious  skin,  rage  and  hate  against  Storm,  who  had  let 
loose  this  fearful  scourge,  and  against  the  shoving, 
crushing,  fighting,  yelling  mob. 

"Oh,  for  a  Napoleon,  here!"  thought  he.  "Oh,  for 
a  battery  of  Maxims  !" 

Near  Broadway  the  car  was  held  up  again  by  a 
fire-engine  which  was  stationed  there,  hose  all  coupled 
for  emergencies.  Here  the  police  ordered  the  machine 
back,  saying  the  only  exit  was  up  Nassau  again  and 
across  Fulton;  but  Murchison  declared  his  identity, 
and  opposition  quickly  changed  to  active  assistance. 

Police  and  firemen  immediately  cooperated  then  to 
lay  planks,  supported  by  bricks,  across  the  lines  of 
hose.  On  these  the  billionaire's  machine  rolled  out  into 
Broadway. 

He  trembled  like  a  leaf,  in  this  emergency,  but  the 
greater  fear  of  going  back  into  that  raging  tumult 
forced  him  to  press  onward. 

The  crowd  here  got  rough  handling  as  a  line  of 
officers  with  night-sticks  battered  the  wall  of  humanity 


150          THE  GOLDEN  BLIGHT 

back,  splitting  the  jam  to  let  the  financial  master  of 
the  world  pass  into  Cortlandt. 

Recognized,  as  he  leaned  for  a  minute  or  so  from 
the  window  to  confer  with  the  police,  Murchison's  pres 
ence  revivified  the  excitement. 

That  wiry  gray  hair,  that  hawk-nose  and  those  spec 
tacles  of  his,  world-f,amous  in  uncounted  cartoons,  had 
instantly  betrayed  him. 

Wild  stories  licked  through  the  crowds,  as  fire  licks 
the  prairie. 

"Murchison!  Murchison's  here!  He's  lost  all  his 
money!  He's  thrown  it  all  out  his  windows! — He's 
turned  all  the  gold  in  the  world  to  dust! — He's  just 
cleaned  up  another  billion,  damn  him! — He's  just  been 
assaulted! — The  Blackhanders  are  after  him! — He's 
wrecking  the  city ! — " 

Bricks  and  stones  began  to  fly  through  the  air. 
Thomas  was  struck  by  a  jagged  piece  of  iron,  which 
deeply  gashed  his  cheek;  but,  stoic  and  impassive, 
merely  cursed  with  fervor  and  still  stuck  to  his  post, 
bleeding  yet  competent. 

Crash!  went  one  of  the  car  windows,  then  another. 
Murchison,  ghastly  and  quivering,  crouched  on  the  car 
peted  floor  among  the  splinters  of  glass  and  tried  to 
pray;  but  all  the  words  he  could  lay  tongue  to  were 
boiling  curses  against  John  Storm. 

As  the  machine  ploughed  past  Trinity  Place,  with 
the  police  on  either  hand  battering  off  the  clutching 
mob,  some  unknown  person  fired  upon  it  with  a  high- 
powered  rifle  from  a  window  of  the  second  story  of  a 
building  on  the  left-hand  side  of  Cortlandt. 

The  bullet  ripped  a  long  splinter  from  the  top  of 


THROUGH  THE  MAELSTROM      151 

the  tonneau,  glanced  upward,  shattered  a  plate-glass 
pane  across  the  street,  and  fell,  spent,  into  the  mob. 

This  same  bullet,  picked  up  and  carefully  saved, 
later  brought  $500  from  a  Cohoes  curio  collector.  Its 
discharge  redoubled  the  pandemonium.  The  building 
was  immediately  rushed  by  the  police,  and  numerous 
arrests  were  made.  But  Murchison  had  no  stomach  for 
investigation  just  then. 

"Go  on!  On!"  shouted  he  to  the  chauffeur,  pale  and 
livid  with  a  new,  deep,  personal  fear. 

For  the  first  time  he  was  beginning  to  realize  the 
character  of  war ;  for  the  first  time  to  understand  the 
vital  difference  between  coupon-cutting  and  facing  the 
chattering  rapid-fires  or  trying  conclusions  with  the 
business  end  of  a  rifle. 

"Let  her  out,  there!"  he  shouted  in  the  speaking- 
tube.  "Drive  through 'em !  Over 'em!  On!  On!" 

Only  when  the  car,  with  the  aid  of  the  police  and 
firemen  and  its  own  magnificent  engine,  had  forced  its 
way  into  the  thinning,  outer  areas  of  the  horde,  on 
Greenwich  Street,  did  he  dare  peek  out  again. 

"Thank  God,"  breathed  he  tremulously,  as  Thomas 
put  a  little  speed  to  her  and  began  making  way  north 
ward,  "thank  God,  I'm  safe,  at  last! 

"What  a  time — what  a  frightful,  unheard  of  time! 
Why— they— I  might  have— might  actually  have  been 
injured!  Even  killed!  Great  Heavens — think  of 
that!" 

No  desire  now  had  he  to  skirt  back  into  the  press 
again,  to  verge  toward  Newspaper  Row,  to  see  the 
struggling,  fighting,  roaring  masses  of  people — thou 
sands,  tens  of  thousands  of  them — trampling  each  other 


152         THE  GOLDEN  BLIGHT 

for  a  sight  of  the  bulletin-boards  where  tired,  excited 
men  were  scrawling  huge  announcements: 

UNSOLVED      WALL      STREET      MYSTERY- 
GOLD   SWEPT   AWAY   BY   UN 
KNOWN  FORCES! 


Prominent  Men  Lose  Large  Sums — Many  Injured- 
Numerous    Fatalities — Broker    Blaisdell 
Stricken  With  Heart  Failure- 
Dies  of  Shock!! 


No,  all  this  had  ceased  to  interest  the  billionaire. 
For  now  his  sole  desire  was  just  flight — just  to  get 
away,  up-town,  anywhere,  away,  away  from  it  all,  away 
into  peace  and  quiet;  away  from  danger  and  the  strife 
and  wrack  of  angry  men. 

Murchison,  in  a  small  way,  a  very  small  way,  had 
had  his  first  experience  of  what  might,  perhaps,  have 
been  considered  some  of  the  minor  aspects  of  war.  To 
a  very  slight,  an  almost  infinitesimal  degree,  he  had  had 
his  first  baptism  of  fire. 

He  did  not  fancy  it  at  all. 

Death,  as  an  actual  possibilty;  death,  or  even  some 
slight  bodily  injury,  nay,  just  delay  and  inconven 
ience  and  the  temporary  thwarting  of  his  will,  by  others, 
possessed  for  him  no  patriotic  charms. 

And  as  some  measure  of  strength  returned  to  his 
enervated  body,  anger  began  to  burgeon  out  again  in 
his  exasperated  soul. 

Once  more  he  began  to  think  of  John  Storm,  cause 


THROUGH  THE  MAELSTROM      153 

of  all  this  hurly-burly,  of  all  this  possible  peril  to 
him — to  him,  Van  Home  Murchison! 

Bitterly  Murchison  cursed  the  scientist,  beneath  his 
breath,  as  the  car  sped  on  and  on,  now  through  the 
almost  deserted  stretches  of  upper  Hudson  Street. 

Vengeance  came  back  into  his  mind,  surged  back, 
more  bitter  and  more  hot  than  ever,  ten  times  more 
virulent  and  keen. 

"Thomas !"  called  he,  remembering  his  campaign. 

"Yes,  sir?" 

"Drive  up  Tenth  Avenue  to  Twenty-Ninth." 

"Yes,  sir." 

And  Thomas,  mopping  the  blood  from  his  face  with 
his  buckskin  gauntlet,  gave  the  engine  a  little  wider 
throttle. 

Faster  now  and  faster  sped  the  car;  and  Murchison, 
absorbed  in  the  delicious  contemplation  of  his  plan, 
leaned  back  and  forgot  the  Wall  Street  riot,  his  own 
heavy  losses,  and  his  recent  terror. 

For  now  revenge  was  very  near,  and  he  must  formu 
late  the  execution  of  it  to  the  smallest  ultimate  details. 


CHAPTER  XIX 

A    THUG    AND    A    NOBLEMAN 

LIKE  a  man  who  knows  exactly  where  he  is  bound, 
and  how  to  get  there,  the  billionaire  bade  Thomas  stop 
the  machine  at  the  designated  corner. 

Here  he  got  out  and  gave  the  chauffeur  certain  care 
ful  instructions. 

"Go  on  up-town  as  far  as  Seventy-Second,"  said  he, 
"then  come  back  to  the  esplanade  in  front  of  the  Penn 
sylvania  depot.  If  I  don't  meet  you  there,  make  an 
other  ten-minute  run,  and  return  to  the  same  place. 
Keep  going  and  coming  at  intervals  of  ten  minutes  till 
you  pick  me  up. 

"Be  sure  not  to  exceed  the  speed  limit  or  get  held  up 
or  run  into  any  trouble.  You  mustn't  let  the  machine 
stand  anywhere.  Keep  moving!  Answer  no  questions 
and  give  out  no  statement  of  any  kind,  if  in  spite  of 
these  precautions  the  car  is  recognized." 

"Yes,  sir." 

"All  right — start  along.     And,  say,  Thomas." 

"Well,  sir?" 

"Better  drop  in  at  the  nearest  drug-store  and  get 
a  bit  of  plaster  on  that  cut.  It's  rather  ugly.  You 
can  do  it  in  a  minute  or  two.  Only,  don't  take  too 
long  about  it.  I  don't  want  the  car  recognized." 

"I  don't  need  no  plaster,  sir.     I'll  be  fine,  just  as 

154 


A  THUG  AND  A  NOBLEMAN     155 

soon  as  the  damned  blood  dries  a  bit  sir,  beggin'  your 
pardon,  sir." 

"No,  no!  Go  get  yourself  fixed  up.  I  wasn't 
thinking  about  that,  but  you'll  attract  attention,  this 
way.  Now  drive  on.  And  remember,  be  at  the  sta 
tion,  here,  at  ten-minute  intervals,  beginning  half  an 
hour  from  now.  That's  all!" 

As  the  car  started,  Murchison  turned  and  walked 
briskly  east  down  Twenty-Ninth  Street,  past  the  long, 
dilapidated  fence  of  the  West  Side  freight-yards — 
rather  an  unusual  locality  for  the  richest  and  most 
powerful  man  in  the  world  to  be  promenading,  lunch- 
less  and  hungry,  and  every  moment  increasingly  furious, 
at  1.30  of  a  frosty  December  afternoon. 

Already  on  the  tiny  news-stand  near  the  corner,  as 
he  turned  north  into  Ninth  Avenue,  big,  black  head 
lines  of  the  Wall  Street  panic  stared  at  him. 

He  only  swore  hotly,  under  his  breath,  and  hastened 
onward  under  the  clanking,  roaring  structure  of  the 
"L,"  which  still  was  pouring  masses  of  eager  men  south 
ward  to  what  they  hoped  was  El  Dorado. 

The  wide-brimmed  gray  felt  hat  which — like  the 
Southerner  he  was — he  always  wore,  helped  his  up 
turned  fur  collar  to  conceal  his  face.  Nobody,  he  felt 
positive,  had  noticed  him.  No  one  suspected,  there,  the 
presence  of  the  man  responsible  for  all  the  vast  turmoil 
of  that  day;  the  man  whom  already  two-score  news 
papers,  press  associations,  and  syndicates,  hundreds  of 
detectives  and  reporters,  a  thousand  banking-houses 
were  straining  every  nerve  to  locate. 

"Confound  them!"  and  Murchison  smiled  an  ugly 
smile  of  triumph.  "Even  though  they  don't  suspect 


156         THE  GOLDEN  BLIGHT 

jet,  that  I'm  actually,  though  unwillingly,  behind  this 
thing,  I  know  they're  after  me,  just  the  same.  'Inter 
view!  Interview!'  they're  howling.  A  word  from  me, 
just  now,  sends  things  up  like  a  rocket  or  drops  'em 
like  a  stone.  Fortunes  are  to  be  had  for  the  picking,  or 
ruin  scorches  men  and  firms  by  the  train-load  lots. 
But  do  they  get  the  word?  I  reckon  they  don't — not 
if  I  see  'em  first!" 

Thus  cogitating,  his  thoughts  divided  between  the 
tumult  he  had  left  behind  and  the  errand  that  now  im 
pelled  him,  he  reached  his  goal,  and  without  hesitation 
turned  into  a  doorway  not  far  from  the  corner  of  Thir 
ty-First.  Up  the  dark  stairs  he  toiled  to  the  third 
landing,  as  though  familiar  with  the  way. 

"This  is  my  first — and  last — personal  contact  with 
these  gentlemen  here,"  thought  he  as  he  knocked  on  a 
door  at  the  far  end  of  the  hall.  "I'm  sure  of  that!" 

A  scraping  of  chairs  in  the  room  at  the  other  side 
of  the  door  answered  his  knock.  Then,  after  a  little 
silence,  a  hoarse  voice  demanded: 

"Who's  there?     What's  wanted?" 

"Is  Mr.  Collins  in?"  asked  Murchison. 

"No  such  man  here  at  all." 

"Nonsense!  Let  me  in,  at  once,  or  you'll  be  sorry 
for  it.  It's  all  right — nothing  to  be  afraid  of — im 
portant  business!" 

Another  pause.     Then  the  voice  said : 

"What's  the  weather?" 

"Looks  like  snow,"  replied  Murchison  promptly. 

A  key  grated,  and  the  door  opened  a  crack.  Mur 
chison  pushed  impatiently  against  it,  but  it  was  held 
by  a  chain. 


A  THUG  AND  A  NOBLEMAN     157 

"Come,  come !"  exclaimed  the  billionaire.  "I  can't  be 
kept  standing  here  all  day !  Let  me  in !" 

The  chain  clanked  slightly.  Then  the  door  swung 
wide.  By  the  dim  light,  Murchison  beheld  a  square- 
built,  red-haired  man  of  Celtic  extraction,  a  man  with 
a  rough  and  bristling  mustache.  The  curious  fact 
that  his  right  eyebrow  and  half  his  left  were  brown, 
while  the  other  half  of  the  left  had  for  some  reason 
or  other  turned  pure  white,  added  a  disconcerting  touch 
to  his  already  sinister-enough  expression. 

"Well,  who  are  you?"  demanded  the  square-built 
man.  "You're  wise  to  the  weather,  O.K.,  but  you'd 
better  come  across  with  your  monaker." 

"No  matter  about  that,  I'm  a  friend  of  Mr.  Mc- 
Shane's,"  answered  the  billionaire.  "I'd  like  to  talk 
with  you  a  few  minutes,  strictly  on  business.  Are  you 
at  liberty?" 

"Ho!  Friend  of  McShane's,  are  you?  Walk  right 
in,  sir ;  walk  right  in.  Sure,  I  didn't  know.  You'll  be 
excusing  me,  sir  ?  Come  right  in !" 

Murchison  entered.  The  door  was  closed  behind 
him,  and  locked  again;  and  the  chain  was  hooked  on. 

He  stayed  a  trifle  more  than  thirty-five  minutes, 
in  that  dark  lair.  When  he  came  out,  he  shook  hands 
with  the  square-built  man,  who  was  grinning.  He 
seemed  well-pleased,  as  he  took  his  departure.  A  few 
minutes  later  Thomas  picked  him  up  at  the  appointed 
spot,  in  front  of  the  huge  fa9ade  of  the  Pennsylvania, 
where  Murchison  calculated  the  hasty  come-and-go 
would  better  veil  his  identity  than  would  the  seeming 
security  of  some  less  public  place. 

Even  at  the  moment  when  he  stepped  into  the  car, 


158          THE  GOLDEN  BLIGHT 

a  shrill  newsboy  thrust  almost  into  his  face  a  huge- 
typed  extra : 

MURCHISON  SHOT  AT  BY   LOSS-CRAZED 
FANATIC! 

Reported  Seriously  Wounded ! ! — Billionaire  Vanishes ; 
May  Be  Dead!!! 

THREE  MORE  BROKERS  FAIL! 

Heavy  Runs  on  Many  Banks!! — Sub-Treasury  Hoard 

Safe,  But  Wall  Street  and  Entire 

Country  Shaken!!! 


Cursing,  the  financier  slammed  the  door. 

"Home!"  commanded  he. 

Thereafter,  for  a  while,  as  the  motor  bears  him  to 
Englewpod — in  his  elation  now  unmindful  of  the  still 
profoundly  agitated  condition  of  the  city,  the  ex 
change,  the  people,  and  the  press — he  passes  into  the 
background  of  our  story,  along  with  Wainwright, 
Baker,  and  the  rest. 

For  the  strict  seclusion  in  which  Murchison  hid  him 
self  at  Edgecliff  was  merely  passive.  And  active  mat 
ters  are  now  pressing  forward  in  this  difficult  chronicle. 

Enter,  now,  John  Storm  once  more. 

How  was  all  this  violent  social  ebullition  affecting 
him?  Where  was  he,  what  doing  and  what  planning? 
Let  us  see. 

If  you  could  have  looked  into  his  laboratory,  on 
Twenty-sixth  Street,  after  he  had  launched  his  fifteen- 


A  THUG  AND  A  NOBLEMAN     159 

minute  coup,  you  might  have  seen  him  sitting  perfectly 
at  ease  in  a  big  chair,  pipe  in  mouth,  observing  a  com 
plex  piece  of  apparatus. 

The  curtains  of  the  room  were  close-drawn,  and 
gloom  filled  it.  All  you  could  distinguish  clearly — 
for  it  stood  out  with  striking  contrast  against  the  half- 
seen  jumble  of  models,  machinery,  retorts  and  tools 
that  covered  work-benches,  tables  and  even  the  floor — 
was  a  diagonal  of  ground-glass,  set  into  a  kind  of  box 
or  cabinet,  and  rather  brilliantly  illuminated  from 
within. 

Wires  led  from  this  to  Storm's  telephone,  thus  put 
ting  it  in  direct  connection  with  the  whole  city  system. 
A  switchboard  stood  beside  the  apparatus;  and  as 
Storm  plugged  in  on  this  board  with  various  wires, 
images  appeared  on  the  ground-glass  screen. 

First  came  a  confused  street-scene,  a  miniature  and 
silent  mob  in  wild  confusion.  Then,  as  Storm  con 
sulted  his  telephone-director}^,  chose  another  location 
and  changed  the  plugs,  the  picture  changed  to  a  dense 
press  crowding  about  the  bulletins  in  Herald  Square. 

Again  Storm  shifted  the  connections,  and  again ;  and 
every  time  fresh  and  vivid  scenes  leaped  into  being  on 
the  glass — scenes  that  all  convinced  him  even  so  slight 
a  trial  as  this  had  shaken  civilization  to  its  base. 

"If,"  reflected  he,  grimly,  "if  this  little  touch,  this 
mere  nibble  at  the  edge  of  things,  throws  a  million  or 
two  of  people  into  spasms,  what  will  a  real,  a  prolonged 
demonstration  do?  Gad!  There's  no  escape  from  me 
now!  The  Plutocracy — the  world  of  finance  and  rob 
bery,  and  war  and  exploitation — the  reign  of  gold — I 
hold  it  all,  all,  in  the  hollow  of  my  hand !" 


160         THE  GOLDEN  BLIGHT 

Still  the  scientist  changed  his  connections,  seeking  in 
vain  for  what  he  wanted. 

"Where  can  lie  be?"  muttered  Storm,  drawing  hard 
at  his  pipe.  "Odd,  but  I  can't  find  him.  I'd  give 
a  good  deal  to  get  a  line  on  him,  just  now,  but — ! 
Damn  this  visualizer,  it's  far  from  perfect,  yet!  The 
best  it  can  do  for  me  is  follow  the  telephone-system!" 

He  smoked  and  watched  the  varying  play  of  the 
great  panic  for  an  hour  or  more,  nodding  with  satis 
faction  from  time  to  time;  then,  wearied  at  last,  sud 
denly  snapped  a  switch. 

The  vision  died.  Storm  arose,  let  the  shades  up 
and  flooded  the  room  with  winter  sunshine,  revealing 
clearly  now  the  vast  and  complex  multiplicity  of  the 
apparatus  that  filled  his  den. 

For  a  moment  he  stood  looking  out  into  the  street, 
pondering  his  campaign. 

"Every  day,  regularly,"  thought  he,  "I'll  hit  'em. 
Harder  and  harder,  every  day!  They  always  know 
when  and  where  they  can  find  me.  So  it  just  becomes 
a  problem  of  endurance.  When  my  load  equals  their 
coefficient  of  resistance,  the  factor  of  safety  disappears 
and  they  break.  Nothing  simpler. 

"I  give  them,  at  a  fair  guess,  three  days  to  capitu 
late.  Three;  perhaps  four.  Not  longer;  because  if 
they  don't  yield  by  then,  their  lives  and  the  lives  of  the 
rest  of  their  class  won't  be  worth  a  sheet  of  my  blotting- 
paper." 

Suddenly  his  telephone  bell  rang. 

"Hello,  hello !"  he  answered  the  call. 

"You,  Storm?"  came  a  voice  over  the  wire. 

"Yes!     Mr.   Murchison?     No  use  trying  to  inter- 


A  THUG  AND  A  NOBLEMAN     161 

view  me  now.  Nothing  doing!  You  know  my  hours. 
Good-by!" 

"Hold  on,  hold  on  there,  idiot !  See  here — you  know 
that  Vuelta  Abajo  field  of  mine,  in  Mindanao?  Well, 
say,  Storm,  it's  yours,  all  yours,  and  I  give  you  a  free, 
clear,  guaranteed  title  to  it,  if — " 

Storm  hung  up.     But  his  face  had  gone  a  trifle  pale. 

"Gad !"  said  he  to  himself.  "It's  a  good  thing  I  cut 
him  off.  That  field — those  smokes — the  old  fox!  He 
certainly  knows  where  to  hit  me.  But  it's  no  go. 
Nothing  doing.  It's  a  fight,  now,  to  a  finish !" 

Considerably  agitated,  Storm  put  on  his  coat  and 
hat,  and  went  out. 

"Enough  of  this  by-proxy  observation,"  said  he. 
"I'll  get  a  bite  to  eat,  and  mix  with  the  crowd.  I  want 
to  see  it  at  first-hand.  After  all,  I've  got  to  hear 
what  thej^'re  saying,  before  I  can  get  an  exact  line  on 
the  situation." 

Slipping  on  his  coat  he  reached  for  his  hat,  which 
lay  where  he  had  tossed  it  among  the  vials  and  carboys. 

"Too  bad,"  he  reflected,  as  he  left  his  den  and  care 
fully  locked  the  door,  "too  bad  about  all  this  violence 
and  injury  and  these  various  fatalities.  But  the  in 
nocent  bystander  always  gets  it  in  the  neck.  In  the 
righting  of  a  great  wrong,  some  few  individuals  must 
get  hurt  and  even  die.  I  can't  free  the  world  from 
war  and  hate,  from  greed  and  misery  and  woe,  with 
out  doing  a  little  damage — as  much,  perhaps,  as  would 
be  done  in  a  single  skirmish  of  a  single  battle !" 

Thus  thinking,  he  sought  the  streets  of  the  city. 

He  found  the  scene  already  familiar,  from  his  obser 
vation  of  the  ground-glass  screen.  But  the  ebb  and 


162          THE  GOLDEN  BLIGHT 

flow  of  the  crowds,  and  the  noisy  turmoil  that  still 
showed  no  signs  of  abating  as  he  pushed  along  Broad 
way,  nevertheless  interested  him  keenly. 

The  streets  were  full  of  the  interminable  extras,  and 
the  crowd  was  still  eagerly  buying,  reading,  discussing. 
At  the  restaurant,  where  he  ate  his  simple  bow]  of  rice 
and  milk,  with  crackers,  everybody  was  poring  over 
the  latest  canards ;  the  whole  place  was  full  of  the  rustle 
and  crinkle  of  newspapers. 

Utter  strangers  fraternized  in  discussing  the  Blight. 
Just  that  one  topic— the  Blight!  Sports,  politics,  the 
market,  the  Detwiller-Hawks  divorce  suit,  the  Ham- 
mett  murder  case,  the  Vanderpoel  turquoise  robbery, 
all  had  dropped  out  of  public  interest. 
Everything  was  Blight,  Blight,  Blight ! 
The  man  across  the  table  from  Storm,  flushed  and 
excited,  tried  to  engage  him  in  an  argument  concern 
ing  it,  while  the  diners  to  right  and  left— clerks,  stenog 
raphers  and  miscellaneous  New  Yorkers— hung  eag 
erly  on  every  word.  This  man  claimed  to  have  wit 
nessed,  personally,  the  first  attack,  in  Wall  Street. 

"I  was  there,  I  tell  you,"  he  cried  dramatically,  wav 
ing  his  arms.  "I  lost  a  gold  stick-pin  right  in  front 
of  the  City  Bank !  Look— see  that?" 

He  displayed  a  pinch  of  white  ash,  carefully  done  up 
in  a  leaf  of  a  note-book. 

"That's  all  I  got  left,  now,  of  my  pin— that,  and 
one  o'  the  rubies!  I  was  there,  I  tell  you— right  on 
the  spot— my  God  .'—what's  happening  here  in  New 
York,  I'd  like  to  know?" 

Such  a  dense  and  pushing  crowd  immediately  gath 
ered  round  the  table  that  the  manager  had  to  beat 


A  THUG  AND  A  NOBLEMAN     163 

his  way  through  and  order  the  man  to  keep  still  or 
leave.     The  excited  one  refused  to  be  silenced. 

Storm,  seeing  a  fight  in  the  making,  got  up,  leav 
ing  his  meal  half-eaten,  and  shoved  his  way  out  into 
Fourteenth  Street  again. 

As  he  shouldered  his  way  into  the  brawling  mass  of 
humanity,  an  enterprising  hawker  shoved  a  sample  of 
what  was,  palpably,  cigar-ash,  into  his  very  face. 

"Only  a  dollar!  One  dollar  only!  Sample  o'  the 
Blight !  Here  y'are— Blight  ash !  One  dollar !" 

Storm  muttered  "faker!"  and  shoved  on;  but  not 
before  an  eager  citizen  had  bought  the  fraud.  Where 
upon  the  hawker  pulled  another  little  paper  box  of 
ash  from  his  pocket  and  once  more  set  up  his  barking 
cry:  "Here  y'are,  gents — genu-ine  Blight  ash — only 
a  dollar — worth  ten !" 

After  an  hour  or  so  spent  mingling  with  the  tre 
mendous  Broadway  crowd,  Storm  workepl  his  way  up 
to  Herald  Square,  and  for  a  while  amused  himself 
watching  the  public  swallow  buncombe,  wholesale,  from 
the  bulletin-boards  and  from  the  great  cloth  screens 
that  had  been  spread,  whereon  stereopticons  flared 
wondrous  lies. 

Tired  of  this,  at  last,  he  turned  homeward,  only  to 
come  across  a  moving-picture  show  which  advertised 
the  first  authentic  films  of  the  Blight  crush.  The 
whole  street  in  front  of  this  place  was  packed  to  suf 
focation.  Storm  had  to  make  a  detour  to  get  south  of 
it  again. 

Thankful  that  his  precious  radio jector  was  safely 
hidden  in  his  secret  den  on  Fifteenth  Street,  he  re 
turned  to  his  laboratory  on  Twenty-sixth,  for  another 


164         THE  GOLDEN  BLIGHT 

session  with  his  visualizer.  Again  he  sought  Murchi- 
son  in  it,  first  at  his  offices,  then  at  the  Englewood 
mansion ;  but  though  he  got  good  pictures  of  the  offices, 
he  found  no  trace  of  him  there.  The  Englewood  con 
nections  were  poor;  he  could  obtain  only  blurred  and 
imperfect  results.  Murchison  was  not  to  be  discovered. 

It  was  9.15  by  the  time  he  regained  his  rooms  in 
Danton  Place. 

Thoroughly  tired  out,  he  smoked  a  little,  made  two 
pages  of  terse  entries  in  his  record  book,  and  went 
to  bed. 

Ten  minutes  later  he  was  sleeping  as  peacefully  as 
though  no  such  things  as  the  Blight  and  the  triumvirate 
existed,  unmindful  of  the  vast  social  upheaval  already 
precipitated  throughout  the  city,  the  nation,  and — to 
a  less  degree — the  world. 

As  he  lapsed  into  unconsciousness,  the  hour  was  3.45 
A.  M.,  in  Berlin,  Germany. 

There,  in  a  severely  plain  yet  elegant  study  in  his 
palace  on  Behren-Strasse,  a  man  was  sitting,  deep  in 
thought. 

Over  his  huge  chest  his  great  beard  lay  as  he  con 
templated  a  cube  of  gold  which  he  held  in  his  sinewed 
hand.  Above  his  head  a  single  tungsten  burned;  its 
light  cast  deep  shadows  across  his  rugged,  powerful 
face,  wrinkled  by  thought  and  harsh  with  many  battles. 

"So?"  mused  the  man  at  length. 

He  raised  his  eyes  to  a  great  chart  of  the  world  that 
hung  against  the  wall,  at  the  back  of  his  broad  ma 
hogany  desk. 

"Three    thousand    miles?     Donnerwetter!     Still    it 


A  THUG  AND  A  NOBLEMAN     165 

may  be  within  the  bounds  of  the  possible;  but  there's 
the  matter  of  the  silver  cargo  to  consider,  too.  Pos 
sible  ?  Certain !  If  I  command,  it  happens !" 

A  tap-tap-tapping  at  the  study  door  disturbed  him. 

"Come." 

A  valet  entered,  bowing  low. 

"Graf  Braunschweig,"  he  hesitated,  "pardon  my 
breaking  Your  Grace's  orders  and  interrupting  Your 
Grace,  but  the  message  is  urgent.  An  envoy  from  the 
chancellor  requests  your  immediate  attendance  at  the 
palace.  His  Imperial  Majesty  desires  to  see  you  at 
once." 

Braunschweig  frowned. 

"Convey  my  respectful  regrets  to  the  envoy,"  he 
answered  grimly.  "But  make  it  clear  that  it  will  be 
impossible  for  me  to  attend.  This  is  the  first  time  I 
have  ever  opposed  His  Majesty's  will;  but  to-night 
greater  matters  are  in  the  air !" 

"But,  Your  Grace — " 

"Silence,"  roared  the  count.  "Not  a  word!  Now, 
listen.  Here  are  three  telegrams.  One  to  Glanzer,  at 
Bucharest ;  one  to  Heinzmann,  at  my  Diisseldorf  labora 
tories;  one  to  Captain  Kurz,  on  board  the  Sieger,  at 
Amsterdam.  Have  these  sent  at  once !" 

"Yes,  Your  Grace." 

"Very  well.  Any  further  news  from  Konig  &  Brei- 
tenbach,  in  New  York?" 

"None,  Your  Grace,  since  that  wireless  at  3.32." 

"The  instant  another  arrives,  rush  it  to  me !" 

"I  understand,  Your  Grace." 

"Very  well.     Now  go !" 

The  valet  bowed  again,  and  departed.     Noiselessly 


166         THE  GOLDEN  BLIGHT 

ft 

the  study  door  closed  behind  him.  Braunschweig  once 
more  took  up  the  cube  of  gold,  a  cube  2.54  centimeters 
on  each  edge,  and  studied  it.  Then  from  a  drawer  of 
the  great  desk  he  extracted  a  silver  cube  and  carefully 
examined  that,  too. 

A  moment  he  pondered. 

At  last  said  he:' 

"Six  thousand  tons  of  silver  ballast  should  suffice, 
for  the  present.  Later,  we  shall  see;  we  shall  see." 

He  took  down  the  receiver  of  his  house  telephone. 

"Kramer?"  he  inquired. 

"Yes,  Your  Grace." 

"Notify  Holz  to  prepare  all  the  papers  at  once.  We 
leave  at  4.15.  The  motor  must  be  ready  at  4,  sharp. 
And  be  sure  to  transmit  to  me,  on  the  train  and  on  the 
Sieger,  every  word  that  comes  from  Heinzmann  and 
from  America." 

"Yes,  Your  Grace." 

Braunschweig  laid  the  telephone  back  on  its  two  hori 
zontal  supports. 

"Now !"  he  exclaimed.     "To  work." 

Vigorously  he  began  to  arrange  despatches,  papers, 
data,  and  all  the  material  already  in  hand. 

This  man,  Maximilian  Braunschweig,  money-overlord 
of  Europe,  had  received  authentic  reports  of  the  Wall 
Street  Blight,  via  his  own  private  cables  and  wireless, 
as  early  as  7  P.  M.,  Berlin  time.  From  that  hour  he 
had  been  in  constant  communication  with  his  New 
York  agents,  Konig  &  Breitenbach,  Broadway. 

Not  one  of  all  the  European  metropolitan  papers 
had  a  quarter  of  the  information  that  had  come  to 
this  colossus  of  Jewish  race  and  faith,  this  ardent 


A  THUG  AND  A  NOBLEMAN     167 

Zionist  and  utterly  fearless  juggler  with  the  finances 
of  more  than  a  dozen  nations. 

First  of  all  the  financiers  of  the  Old  World,  he  had 
perceived  something  of  the  truth.  His  keen  Semitic 
brain  and  all  but  infallible  instinct  had  told  him  that 
far  vaster  issues  were  at  stake,  infinitely  deeper  prob 
lems  and  possibilities  involved,  than  outwardly  ap 
peared. 

By  3  A.  M.,  scorning  rest  or  sleep,  he  had  completely 
arranged  his  vast  affairs  so  that  they  could  be  man 
aged  by  his  staff  during  an  indefinite  absence.  By  4.05 
his  motor  was  whirring  him  and  his  secretary  from  his 
Behren-Strasse  palace,  across  the  River  Spree,  to  the 
Alexander-Platz  Bahnhof. 

The  4.15  Holland  Limited  delayed  thirty-five  seconds 
to  couple  on  his  private  car — seconds  that  had  to  be 
made  up,  unfailingly,  on  the  run  to  Amsterdam. 

Already,  in  obedience  to  many  code-telegrams,  banks 
in  Brussels,  Ghent,  Antwerp  and  The  Hague,  as  well 
as  in  Amsterdam,  had  shipped  silver,  by  special  trains, 
to  Captain  Kurzmann  of  the  Graf's  quadruple-turbine, 
32-knot  yacht  Sieger.  This  silver,  as  fast  as  it  ar 
rived,  was  stowed  as  ballast;  and  in  the  yacht's  boilers 
already  a  tremendous  head  of  steam  was  pent. 

Before  noon  the  financier  knew  he  would  be  well  out 
of  the  Zuyder  Zee,  scudding  swiftly  southwest  toward 
the  English  Channel,  on  the  first  lap  of  a  long,  straight, 
record-shattering  run  for  Sandy  Hook. 

Meanwhile  John  Storm  slept  peacefully  as  any  child. 


CHAPTER  XX 

TRAPPED 

STORM  was  awakened  suddenly  by  a  vivid  nightmare, 
a  dream  that  a  steel  safe  filled  with  bags  of  gold  had 
fallen  on  his  chest,  pinning  him,  crushing  him  to  earth, 
without  the  power  of  moving  hand  or  foot.  All  that 
saved  him  from  death,  it  seemed,  was  the  fact  that  a 
thick  coating  of  ashes  in  some  mysterious  way  softened 
the  metal  of  the  safe. 

With  a  strangled  grunt  he  tried  to  turn  over — and 
found  he  could  not.  The  dream,  his  returning  con 
sciousness  discovered,  was  based  on  some  degree  of 
truth. 

Unreasonably  terrified,  as  men  often  are  when  hardly 
yet  awake,  he  made  a  mighty  effort  to  cry  out,  to  sit 
up  in  bed. 

To  his  infinite  astonishment  he  found  he  could  do 
neither. 

Then  he  got  his  eyes  wide  open,  even  though  his 
mouth  remained  sealed ;  and  his  uncomprehending  sight 
informed  him  that  the  room  was  dimly  lighted. 

When  he  had  gone  to  bed  he  had,  as  usual,  turned 
out  all  the  jets  in  both  his  rooms,  closed  the  door  from 
his  study  into  his  bedroom,  and  opened  both  windows 
in  the  latter. 

Now  he  found  the  door  was  open  and  the  windows 

168 


TRAPPED  169 

shut,  the  shades  pulled  down  and  one  gas-jet  lighted 
near  his  chiffonier. 

Again,  still  not  realizing  exactly  what  it  was  that 
held  him,  he  fought  to  rise ;  to  shout.  But  the  futility 
of  this  effort,  joined  with  a  sense  of  pain,  made  him 
desist. 

And  now,  lying  for  a  moment  quiet,  he  perceived  that 
he  was  bound  to  the  bed.  His  mouth  was  filled  with 
something  soft,  yet  silencing.  He  bit  against  it. 

Cloth!     A  bandage,  a  gag  of  some  sort! 

Again  he  struggled,  with  no  better  success. 

Now  he  realized  that  strips  of  cloth  had  been  passed 
over  him  and  under  the  narrow  bed,  wound  and  re 
wound  and  lashed  in  place,  his  entire  length. 

He  was  swathed  like  a  mummy,  with  no  more  power 
to  escape  or  yell  for  help  than  the  oldest  Ptolemy  in  the 
Metropolitan  Museum. 

Storm  relaxed,  and  tried  to  understand. 

"Gad!"  thought  he,  "I'm  up  against  it  for  sure! 
What's  doing?  How  can  /  tell?  All  I  know  is  I'm 
caught.  Force  won't  get  me  out  of  this.  Whatever's 
in  the  wind  for  me,  my  only  show  is  diplomacy  and 
sharper  wits  than  the  other  fellow !" 

He  lay  quiet,  looking  all  about  the  room,  taking  in 
the  largest  radius  that  he  could  possibly  command  by 
straining  his  eyes  in  every  direction.  His  head,  he  dis 
covered,  had  an  inch  or  two  of  leeway. 

And  though  a  strange,  nauseated,  numb  sensation 
told  him  that  certainly  some  narcotic  had  been  used 
upon  him,  yet  he  fought  it  off  and  tried  to  think,  to 
understand,  to  plan. 

He  had  no  data  to  guide  him  save  the  already-dis- 


170         THE  GOLDEN  BLIGHT 

covered  facts  about  the  bandages  and  the  gag,  the  door, 
the  windows,  and  the  dimly  lighted  gas-jet. 

Seemingly,  at  first;  but  as  with  an  extra  effort,  Storm i 
wrenched  his  head  a  trifle  higher  and  turned  his  aching: 
eyes  far  around  to  the  left,  he  suddenly  got  a  dim,, 
vague  perception  of  some  unfamiliar  object  on  a  chair 
at  the  head  of  the  bed. 

His  heart  gave  so  mighty  a  leap  that  he  lay  back 
faint  and  weak.  But  this  weakness  passed;  and  now 
once  more  Storm  struggled  to  see  what  the  object 
might  be. 

Try  as  he  might,  he  could  not  get  it  into  the  direct 
line  of  vision ;  but,  even  despite  the  dim  illumination  and 
the  fact  that  he  had  to  see  with  the  extreme  edge  of  his 
retina,  he  presently  satisfied  himself  that  the  thing  on 
the  chair  was  some  sort  of  a  small,  black,  leather  hand 
bag  or  satchel,  such  as  doctors  often  carry. 

"For  Heaven's  sake,  what  can  be  the  meaning  of 
that?"  thought  he.  Closing  his  eyes,  he  lay  quiet;  he 
tried  to  grasp  the  correlation  of  the  factors  involved. 
But  though  he  turned  the  matter  logically  in  his  mind, 
he  got  no  definite  satisfaction. 

"To  dope  and  rob  a  man  like  me,  who  hasn't  got  any 
thing  at  all  to  steal,"  he  reflected,  "certainly  isn't  worth 
the  while  of  skilled  crooks  such  as  these  seem  to  be. 

"That  is,  unless  in  some  way  or  other  they  know  I'm 
responsible  for  the  Blight  and  want  to  get  my  secret 
out  of  me,  to  make  millions  with.  As  though,"  and  he 
smiled,  despite  his  pain,  "as  though  anybody  else  on 
earth  could  use  it,  even  if  they  knew  the  apparatus  from 
AtoZ! 

"Is  this  Murchison's  work?     The  old  man's  no  idiot ! 


TRAPPED  171 

He  remembers  what  I  told  him,  that  if  I'm  put  out  of 
the  way,  the  whole  system  goes  to  smash  at  once.  He's 
wise,  Murchison  is.  He  wouldn't  wreck  the  world  and 
himself  along  with  it,  just  for  the  sake  of  getting  square 
with  me !" 

Yet  though  he  tried  to  convince  himself  of  this  logic, 
the  consciousness  still  remained  that  now,  in  all  prob 
ability,  he  lay  fast-bound  in  some  devious,  far-reaching 
tentacle  of  Murchison's  octopus  power. 

"And  if  so,  what  then?     Death?"  he  pondered. 

The  thought  transfixed  him  with  chill  forebodings. 
Though  Storm  was  brave  enough,  as  bravery  is 
reckoned,  he  was  no  stranger  to  fear.  Personal  fear 
he  had  none;  fear  for  his  work  in  life,  his  ideal,  his 
hope  and  plan,  was  very  real  to  him. 

And  should  he  be  killed,  he  well  realized  the  results 
to  the  world  at  large. 

Instead  of  a  progressive,  upward-moving,  civilizing 
force,  his  Blight — now  out  of  control  and  working  its 
blind  will  wholesale  and  at  random — would  in  a  few 
days  wreck  the  world. 

Without  him  to  control  it,  the  Blight  would  spread 
at  random.  Like  a  runaway  locomotive  on  a  down 
grade  toward  a  crowded  terminal,  it  must  inevitably 
hurl  catastrophe  upon  mankind. 

His  own  hand,  guiding,  checking,  releasing,  was  all 
that  stood  between  mankind  and  the  most  disastrous 
panic  in  the  history  of  civilized  life.  At  thought  of  this 
Storm  groaned. 

The  world  needed  him.  His  death  would  mean  its 
utter  ruin. 

He  wanted  to  live !     He  must  live !     He  could  not  die 


172         THE  GOLDEN  BLIGHT 

— yet !  He  was  young ;  he  loved  life  and  work  and  the 
joy  of  fighting  the  world's  battle  to  the  end.  Above 
all  else  he  wanted  to  see  the  triumph  of  his  vast  idea,  to 
behold  the  working  out  of  his  tremendous  world-cam 
paign. 

And  as  these  thoughts  came  to  him,  he  once  more 
began  to  struggle.  With  sudden  fury,  like  a  madman 
lashed  to  an  asylum  pallet,  he  moaned,  gnashed  at  his 
gag  and  wrenched  at  the  constraining  bandages  that 
held  him  prisoner. 

Then  suddenly  he  heard  a  sound  that  set  the  goose- 
flech  prickling  all  over  his  body.  At  the  nape  of  his 
neck  he  felt  the  hair  stirring.  The  better  to  listen,  he 
lay  very  quiet  now,  holding  his  breath,  all  his  percep 
tions  quickened,  sharpened  into  the  one  sense  of  hearing. 

Out  there  in  the  other  room,  the  study,  a  faint  metal 
lic  noise  was  audible. 

"A  key  turning !"  thought  Storm.  "Now— the  hall 
door's  opening.  Now  somebody's  coming  in !" 

Gently  the  hall  door  closed.  Again  Storm  heard  the 
slight  rasp  of  the  key.  Then  soft-shod  footsteps 
sounded  on  the  floor,  and  the  gas  flared  suddenly  in 
the  other  room. 

A  voice,  low,  quiet,  steady,  said: 

"Now,  Danny,  to  work !  And  if  you  make  any  more 
bulls  or  forget  anything  else,  I'll  fire  you.  Think  I 
want  to  leave  a  job  half  done  and  go  staving  round  for 
proper  materials  this  time  o'  night?" 

Storm  lay  low.  The  voice,  though  muffled,  was  in 
disputably  Irish.  The  answer  came  in  similar  accents : 

"Forget  it!  No  harm  done.  Sure,  it'll  be  as  slick 
a  piece  o9  work  as  ever  was — you'll  see !" 


TRAPPED  173 

Storm's  heart  began  to  flail.  It  almost  choked  him, 
yet  he  held  his  breath  to  listen. 

Came  then  the  scratch  of  a  match.  Storm  heard 
the  soft,  regular  puff!  puff!  puff!  of  a  cigar  being 
lighted.  With  hot  anger  through  all  his  distress,  he 
realized  that  an  intruder  was  smoking  one  of  his  cigars 
— one  of  his  precious  Conchas  de  Samar,  the  closest 
approximation  to  Mindanaos  that  old  Manuel  Barra, 
the  Porto  Rican  cigar  smuggler,  had  been  able  to  find 
for  him.  And  thoughts  of  vengeance  dawned  within 
his  brain. 

"Well,  Bill,  let's  get  busy!"  said  the  first  voice 
presently.  Then  footsteps  approached  the  door  of  the 
bedchamber. 

"Now,"  thought  Storm,  "here's  where  I  get  it !  It's 
coming,  now!" 


CHAPTER  XXI 

SUICIDE    BY    PROXY 

STORM'S  native  wit  prompted  him  to  make  no  outcry, 
no  motion,  no  sign  of  consciousness.  Instead,  he  closed 
his  eyes,  relaxed,  and  lay  inert.  For  thus,  perhaps,  he 
might  overhear  some  word,  some  hint,  that  would  give 
him  a  key  both  to  what  had  happened  and  to  what  was 
written  on  the  cards  of  Fate.  Between  almost  closed 
lids  he  watched,  breathing  slowly,  regularly,  like  an 
unconscious  man. 

Two  figures  entered  the  room.  One,  he  saw  by  the 
dim  light,  reflected  from  the  other  room,  was  small 
and  spare;  the  other  a  tall,  square-built  man  with  red 
hair — a  powerful,  ominous-looking  fellow. 

Storm  knew  they  were  peering  down  at  him.  He 
smelled  the  smoke  of  one  of  his  very  best  cigars ;  heard 
their  breathing;  sensed  the  keen  attention  they  were 
concentrating  on  him. 

Then  the  square-built  man  spoke. 

"Not  out  of  it  yet?  So  much  the  better!  Cinch! 
All  we've  got  to  do  then  is  fix  the  letter,  give  him  the 
needle  and  take  off  the  bandage.  Then  open  things 
wide — and  beat  it !" 

The  other  did  not  answer.  Instead  he  stepped  over 
to  the  chiffonier.  Suddenly  the  light  grew  strong. 
Storm  knew  he  had  turned  on  the  gas. 

174 


SUICIDE  BY  PROXY  175 

"Faking!"  he  heard  the  little  chap  sneer.  "H e's 
awake,  all  right.  See  how  he's  moved  the  bandages? 
Oh,  he's  no  fool !" 

Storm  heard  a  step,  then  felt  himself  roughly  shaken 
by  the  shoulder. 

"Come,  come,  buddy!"  ordered  the  skeptic.  "Wake 
up,  you.  No  use  trying  to  work  the  'possum  racket. 
We're  wise.  Come  out  of  it !" 

Storm  realized  the  futility  of  bluff,  and  opened  his 
eyes.  For  a  moment,  prisoner  and  invaders  stared  at 
each  other,  mentally  taking  stock. 

"What  does  all  this  mean?  What  do  you  want  with 
me?  What  do  you  think  you're  going  to  do?"  Storm 
tried  to  ask;  but  the  only  sound  that  got  past  the  gag 
was  a  stifled :  "Wawawa  dada  wawawawawa  !" 

The  big  fellow  laughed.  His  teeth  showed  in  a 
canine  rictus.  Storm  saw  that  half  of  one  eyebrow 
was  white. 

"Yes,  I  guess  so,"  said  he.  "That's  all  right,  mister'. 
But  I  don't  exactly  get  the  whole  of  it.  Sure,  you 
understand  yourself,  it's  a  little  hard  to  catch.  So 
you'll  be  excusing  me,  eh?" 

"Drop  that!"  growled  the  other.  "We've  got  no 
time  for  funny  business.  It's  past  three  now.  In  fif 
teen  minutes  we've  got  to  be  on  our  way.  Get  the 
needle,  Bill,  and  don't  be  all  day  about  it !" 

He  gestured  at  the  black  bag  on  the  chair  beside  the 
bed.  Storm  vaguely  saw,  with  suddenly  alarmed  eyes, 
that  the  square-built  man  was  opening  the  bag.  Then 
he  caught  a  glimpse  of  a  delicate  nickel-plated  hypo 
dermic  syringe  in  the  man's  fingers. 

"Wawawawawaaaa!"  he  mumbled  hotly. 


176          THE  GOLDEN  BLIGHT 

Against  his  bonds  he  threw  his  full  strength,  writh 
ing,  fighting,  straining  to  be  free,  until  the  veins  in  his 
forehead  swelled,  his  face  grew  purple,  and  the  very  bed 
stead  creaked. 

But  the  two  men  paid  not  the  slightest  heed  to  him. 
They  did  him  not  even  the  honor  to  seem  interested  in 
his  violent  exertions. 

Instead,  the  smaller  one  stepped  over  to  Storm's 
wash-stand,  drew  a  half -glass  of  water  from  the  faucet, 
and  then  dropped  into  it  a  couple  of  tiny  tablets,  which 
he  shook  into  his  palm  from  a  slender  glass  tube. 

"Now,  while  the  peter's  dissolving,"  he  remarked 
casually,  "you  fix  up  the  farewell  note,  the  last  good-by 
to  this  hard  and  cruel  world.  You  know  the  wording 
already.  Don't  leave  out  anything.  It's  got  to  be  as 
pathetic  as  possible,  Danny ;  that's  what  hits  the  papers 
hard. 

"I'd  do  it  myself  if  I  was  half  the  scratch-man  you 
are.  Since  you  forgot  the  stuff  and  made  me  go  hunt 
ing  it  at  2.15  A.  M.,  I  hate  to  leave  any  part  of  this  job 
to  you;  but  I've  got  to,  I  guess.  You  certainly  have 
got  the  knack  with  a  pen.  Go  on,  get  busy !" 

The  big  fellow  withdrew  into  the  other  room.  Storm 
heard  him  opening  the  desk-drawer,  rustling  papers, 
and  drawing  up  a  chair,  to  write.  And  once  more  his 
frantic  anger  surged. 

More  frenziedly  than  ever  he  hurled  himself  against 
his  bandages.  Dumb-mad,  he  fought.  The  little  man, 
eying  him  now  with  a  mild  interest,  sat  down  by  the 
bedside  and  tilted  his  chair  against  the  wall. 

"Come,  come,  mister,"  remarked  he.  "That's  no  use. 
No  use  at  all.  It  only  plays  you  out.  You  can't  bust 


SUICIDE  BY  PROXY  17T 

'em.  It  took  Red-top  there  and  me  half  an  hour  to 
make  you  all  O.  K.,  while  you  were  lying  in  sweet  dreams 
of  our  own  private  manufacture.  The  cloth's  strong, 
and  the  knots  all  strictly  scientific.  No  go.  You  bet 
ter  keep  still." 

He  paused,  then  added  thoughtfully : 

"Still  and  quiet.  Better  save  your  strength  for 
praying,  if  you  believe  in  it!" 

Storm  desisted  from  his  furious  contortions.  He  felt 
sick  and  dizzy  and  faint.  Cruelly  the  gag  hurt  his 
lacerated  mouth.  The  blood  hummed  loudly  in  his  ears. 
Gagged  and  helpless,  he  stared  at  the  little  beast. 

What  would  he  not  have  given  for  one  moment's 
chance  to  yell,  one  half-minute's  free  use  of  even  one 
hand  and  arm! 

At  the  mocking,  wizened  face  he  glared  with  fevered 
eyes,  bloodshot  and  wild  and  savage.  But  to  speak 
again  he  did  not  try. 

He  lay  quiet  a  moment,  trying  to  think. 

Outside,  in  the  street,  he  heard  the  purr  and  honk- 
honk-honk!  of  a  passing  motor.  From  Broadway,  even, 
penetrated  the  faint  clang  of  an  electric.  The  dull, 
somnolent  hum  of  the  metropolis,  never  stilled  by  night 
or  day,  reached  his  pulsating  ears. 

And,  like  a  premonition,  in  to  him  was  borne  the 
certainty  that  when  dawn  once  more  should  break,  red 
and  sullen,  over  the  eastern  sky-line,  he,  John  Storm, 
would  be  past  hearing,  seeing,  thinking,  struggling  any 
more — forever. 

A  moment  the  two  men  looked  at  each  other  by  the 
unsteady  light  of  the  gas-flame,  which  burned  low. 

Then  spoke  the  intruder — while  from  the  other  room 


178          THE  GOLDEN  BLIGHT 

faintly  sounded  the  scratch  of  pen  on  paper.  Said  he : 
"You've  got  about  ten  minutes  more,  Bo.  Maybe  a 
trifle  less,  according  to  how  your  system  takes  it.  At 
any  rate,  not  over  ten.  It's  a  rotten  game  two  can't 
play  at.  Isn't  it  fair  you  take  a  little  Blight  your 
self?" 

He  smoked  a  bit  with  evident  satisfaction. 
"Good  tobacco,  mister,"  he  commented.  "If  you 
don't  mind  giving  us  two  men  a  sort  of  legacy,  we'll 
borrow  a  few  of  these  when  we  leave.  But  nothing  else. 
Not  one  other  blessed  thing.  By  which  token  you'll 
know,  of  course,  we're  not  here  to  lift  your  coin,  or  any 
vulgar  business  such  as  that.  No,  it's  bigger  game 
we're  on  the  track  of,  and  mean  to  get,  and  have  got! 
"If  you're  a  praying  man,  get  busy.  Pretty  soon 
you're  going  to  sleep.  You'll  wake  up  in  whatever 
other  world  there  is,  or  none,  according  to  circum 
stances  and  facts.  But  before  you  go,  it  must  give 
you  some  satisfaction  to  know  this  is  no  coarse  work, 
like  a  knockout  on  a  street  corner  or  a  puff  from  a 
canister  in  the  dark, 

"Nix  on  that !  This  is  an  Al  job,  first-class  in  every 
respect.  Of  course,  it's  anonymous.  That's  a  pity, 
too.  Danny,  in  there,  and  I — we  get  no  credit,  no  pub 
lic  recognition.  But  it's  good  to  know  the  work's  well 
done.  You're  a  scientific  man,  mister ;  you  understand 
how  it  is.  Slick,  neat,  shipshape  every  way.  Truly 
artistic  and  0.  K.  A  well-conducted  experiment,  that's 
all.  Fine !  You  see—" 

He  was  interrupted  by  the  square-built  man  coming 
in  with  a  freshly  written  sheet  in  his  hand. 

"Here  we  are,"  remarked  he  cheerfully.     "Here's  the 


SUICIDE  BY  PROXY  179 

late  lamented's  last  adieu.  Farewell,  proud  world,  I'm 
goin'home!  Faith,  it's  a  corker !  See?" 

The  little  chap  took  the  note  from  Danny.  He  read 
it  with  a  critical,  approving  eye. 

"It  is  good,  that's  a  fact,"  admitted  he.  "You  cer 
tainly  missed  your  calling,  boy,  when  you  side-stepped 
scratch  work.  It's  not  too  late  for  you  yet  to  com- 
mence — not  too  late !  The  living  spit  and  image  of  his 
writing,  so  it  is.  Will  it  pass  in  the  shuffle?  I'm  a 
preacher  if  it  don't!" 

He  held  the  paper  out  before  Storm's  eyes,  turning 
it  so  the  gaslight  fell  across  it. 

"Pipe  that,  will  you?     Some  pretty  job,  eh?" 

Storm,  dazed  and  sick  with  loathing  and  despair,  read 
as  in  a  dream  this  message — written  in  so  close  an  imita 
tion  of  his  hand  that  it  seemed  his  very  own : 

Life,  the  supreme  problem,  soluble  only  by  death,  the  ultimate 
reaction.  By  my  own  act  I  die,  as  I  have  always  lived,  seeking 
knowledge.  JOHN  STORM. 

"Classy,  what  ?"  remarked  the  little  man.  "Literary, 
too!  Nothing  cheap  about  that!  Oh,  we  may  not 
look  it,  mister,  but  we've  got  some  education.  We  put 
in  a  lot  o'  time  framing  that. 

"Put  it  out  there  on  the  table,  Danny,  and  set  an 
inkstand  on  it,  so  it  can't  get  lost  or  anything.  It's 
important." 

He  arose,  stretched,  dropped  the  smoked-out  cigar 
to  the  matting,  and  set  his  heel  upon  it.  Then  he  took 
up  the  hypodermic-needle  again,  screwed  it  together, 
and  walked  over  to  the  glass  of  solution  on  the  wash- 
stand. 


180         THE  GOLDEN  BLIGHT 

"When  you're  found  here,  to-morrow,"  remarked  he 
impersonally,  "asphyxiated  in  your  own  bed,  not  tied  or 
anything,  but  lying  nice  and  peaceful,  with  that  on  the 
table,  you  see  how  fine  and  dandy  everything  will  go? 

"Faith,  it'll  be  one  lovely  case!  The  papers  will, 
maybe,  give  it  half  a  column,  inside  page — some  of  'em 
may  even  run  a  cut;  though  I  can't  guarantee  it,  ac 
count  o'  the  Blight  news  being  so  urgent  and  the  pub 
lic  mind  upset. 

"Anyhow,  it'll  be  pretty  big  for  you,  considering  the 
time  it's  pulled  off !  Well,  are  we  ready  to  be  blighted?" 

Speaking,  he  dipped  the  fine  needle-point  into  the 
solution  and  drew  up  the  ring. 

"Now,  Watson,  the  hop  yen,"  he  said  mockingly. 
"Quick,  the  needle!  Will  you  help  me  give  the  in 
somnia  treatment,  please?  In  the  neck.  You  just 
hold  his  head  firm;  that's  all  you  got  to  do,  my  lad." 

The  square-built  man  stepped  to  the  bedside,  and  with 
his  tremendous  gorilla  hands  seized  Storm's  head.  Over 
to  one  side  he  wrenched  it,  exposing  an  open  space  on 
the  scientist's  neck. 

Storm  howled  muffled  imprecations,  and  hurled  him 
self  against  his  bandages,  quite  in  vain. 

Calmly  as  though  he  were  a  doctor  soothing  a  fevered, 
pain-racked  patient,  the  wizened  man  brought  the  "sub- 
cute"  against  Storm's  neck. 

Storm  felt  the  man's  thumb  and  finger  pinch  up  the 
skin  into  a  tight  fold;  then  came  the  slight  jab  of  the 
needle. 

Then,  with  an  exclamation  of  satisfied  accomplish 
ment,  the  little  man  withdrew  his  hand. 

He  squirted  a  remaining  drop  of  liquid  on  to  the 


SUICIDE  BY  PROXY  181 

floor,  carefully  wiped  the  needle,  and  put  it  again  into 
its  case.  The  square-built  man  released  Storm's  head. 
Back  he  stood,  grinning  at  the  victim's  vain  and  furious 
efforts  to  get  free. 

"Nothing  to  do  now  but  wait  till  he  goes  to  by-by," 
said  the  little  fellow  contemplatively.  "Then  off  with 
the  bandages,  open  everything  wide,  and  dust  out! 
We  got  goods  on  the  old  man,  now,  that'll  bring  us 
a  million  if  we  work  it  right.  Huh!  Only  five  thou 
sand  for  a  job  like  this?  Nix  on  that !  Guess  noil" 

"Leave  Murchison  to  me,  Bo,"  the  other  answered, 
as  they  sauntered  into  the  study.  "Blight  or  no 
Blight,  he'll  come  across,  now,  or — !" 

"Pipe!  And  speaking  of  pipes,  reminds  me.  Join 
me  in  another  cigar,  Danny?  There's  half  a  box  of 
fair  smokes  in  the  other  room." 

"Smoke  is  my  middle  name,"  answered  the  other. 

Then,  with  a  final  glance  at  Storm,  both  men  saun 
tered  leisurely  out  into  the  study. 

Storm,  drugged  and  bound,  heard  in  his  anguish  the 
click  of  the  telephone-receiver  being  taken  down.  A 
pause,  then: 

"Englewood,  660-Q." 

Another  pause. 

"Hello?     How's  the  weather?" 

66  99 

"Snow  is  right.  It's  a  cold  day  when  anyone  gets 
away  with  anything  on  us." 

66  99 

"All  fixed,  right  an'  proper.  A  good  job,  at  that. 
So,  any  time  we  get  the  rest  of  the  stuff — " 


182          THE  GOLDEN  BLIGHT 

"Sure  of  it!     Everything's  settled.     You'll  see  it  in 
the  papers,  to-morrow  night,  sure.  .   .   .  Yes,  sure !  . 
All  right,  any  time.  .  .  .  Give  you  the  whole   story. 
.   .   .  Good-bye!" 

Storm  made  one  last,  furious  struggle,  all  in  vain. 
Bound  and  drugged,  he  heard  the  striking  of  matches 
and  the  creak  of  chairs.  He  knew  the  murderers,  calm 
and  collected,  were  taking  their  ease  while  he— he  was 
dying. 

"Don't  suppose  he's  got  a  drop  o'  good  stuff  to  lap 
up,  here,  do  you?"  he  heard  the  little  man's  voice. 
And  then,  cautiously,  drawers  and  cupboards  were 
opened,  and  there  came  slight  sounds  of  bottles  chink 
ing  as  divers  vials  and  flasks  were  moved  on  the 
shelves  where  the  scientist  kept  his  chemicals  and 
reagents. 

"God !  If  they'd  only  get  hold  of  my  wood-alcohol !" 
thought  Storm.  "Or  the  brandy  I  had  that  Haytien 
fer-de-lance  pickled  in !" 

But  now,  already,  his  thoughts  were  beginning  to 
grow  vague,  uncertain,  wild.  Over  him  a  strange  and 
numbing  change  was  beginning  to  creep. 

The  drug,  he  realized,  had  already  begun  its  sopor 
ific,  deadly  work. 


CHAPTER  XXII 

IS    THIS    DEATH? 

BITTER  his*  fight  was  against  it;  but  in  its  very 
nature  the  battle  was  a  losing  one.  Will-power,  de 
termination,  grit,  and  furious  rage  all  alike  were  pow 
erless  to  combat  the  oncoming  of  stupefaction. 

In  two  minutes  Storm  was  dazed  and  drunk,  his 
brain  reeling,  his  senses  all  distorted  with  the  powerful 
lethal  stuff  now  pumping  through  his  arteries. 

Sick  with  the  realization  of  death  close  at  hand,  he 
flung  his  failing  will  against  the  poison— and  lost.  In 
his  ears  ihe  blood  hammered  loudly ;  sweat  goutted  his 
whole  body ;  his  respiration  grew  shorter,  quicker,  till 
he  panted  as  he  lay  there  writhing. 

And  his  ideas,  his  apperceptions,  began  to  fade,  to 
become  distorted  and  absurd.  Hallucinations  seized 
upon  him.  He  seemed  to  see  faces— then  a  vision  of 
his  precious  machine,  his  radio jector— then  swarms  of 
^wiftly  flying,  interweaving  things. 

He  beat  them  back,  only  to  find  them  pressing  ever 
thicker,  ever  more  grotesque. 

Then  a  dull,  languorous  peace  began  to  steal  upon 
him,  a  poppied  calm,  such  as  the  fabled  lotus-eaters 
must  have  felt. 

He  seemed  now  to  be  sliding  down  a  long  and  smooth 
incline,  eliding  in  a  precipice  deep,  formless,  black. 


183 


184          THE  GOLDEN  BLIGHT 

Before  his  eyes,  which  with  a  mighty  effort  he  still 
managed  to  keep  open,  a  thin  gray  veil  began  to  float, 
to  wave,  to  lower.  Thicker  it  grew  and  denser,  till  it 
pressed  against  his  face  and  stifled  him. 

He  struggled  then  anew,  and  for  a  moment  pushed 
it  back;  but  still  it  came  again,  this  time  more  swiftly. 
And,  blinded  now,  he  seemed  to  behold  with  his  mind's 
eye  a  vast  and  swift  succession  of  scenes,  too  huge,  too 
rapid  for  realization,  like  De  Quincy's  phantom  armies, 
opium-born. 

Came  a  period  of  rest,  of  half-unconsciousness. 
Then  the  thought:  "This  is  death!"  flashed  in  his 
brain. 

And  once  again  he  fought — fought,  as  it  seemed, 
with  a  hundred,  a  thousand  grinning,  dancing,  leering 
demons  who,  phantomlike,  evaded  every  blow,  turned  to 
wraiths,  mocked  him  and  gibed,  the  while  they  struck. 

Warmth,  comfort,  lassitude  possessed  him  finally;  a 
sense  of  the  futility  of  life  and  struggle ;  a  dreamy  peace 
and  rest. 

He  lay  quite  still.  For  a  moment  he  managed  once 
more  to  open  his  eyes.  The  ceiling,  he  perceived,  was 
gyrating  in  long,  smooth,  beautiful  curves — wonderful 
ellipses,  parabolas,  volutes,  arabesques,  constantly 
changing,  always  more  and  more  complex. 

"If  I  could  only  trace  those  curves  and  draw  them!" 
he  vaguely  thought. 

But  now  the  curves  were  centering  in  one  spot,  di 
rectly  over  his  head.  Around  and  round  they  whirled, 
lower  and  lower;  he  seemed  to  lie  at  the  bottom  of  a 
spiraling  maelstrom,  the  point  of  which  was  coming 
closer,  ever  closer  to  his  face. 


IS  THIS  DEATH?  185 

"When  it  touches  me,  I'm  gone,"  he  realized;  but  he 
no  longer  even  tried  to  struggle.  For  a  great  peace, 
a  painless  beatitude,  were  his. 

Ebbing,  flowing,  his  consciousness  rose  and  fell  in 
(slow  and  rhythmic  waves,  diminuendo.  Only  on  the 
jcrests  of  these  waves  now  could  he  grasp  anything  of 
(what  had  happened,  what  impended.  In  the  hollows 
pe  lay  inert  and  blessed,  near  the  Karma,  the  longed- 
for  annihilation  dreamed  of  by  followers  of  Buddha. 

Nearer,  much  nearer,  spun  the  giddy  vortex  of  the 
whirl  above  him. 

He  closed  his  eyes  and  waited ;  and  his  soul  yearned 
for  the  touch  of  it. 

All  at  once,  far  away  and  resonant  with  a  strange 
timbre,  he  seemed  to  hear  a  voice.  Then  a  sensation 
of  light  grew  vaguely  in  his  mind. 

Spinning  above  him,  he  seemed  to  see  a  human  face; 

but  it  was  very  small  and  distant,  seemingly  at  the  end 

of  an  infinite  vista.     In  spite  of  all,  however,  he  seemed 

I  to  know  the  face — wrinkled  and  wizened  and  smiling 

down  at  him. 

Faintly  he  realized  that  his  eyelid  had  been  raised. 

"I  guess  he'll  do  now,"  he  heard  a  humming  sound. 
"See  here,  Danny?  His  pupil's  dilated  to  the  limit. 
The  quicker  we  get  these  things  off  him  and  roll  out  o* 
here,  the  better.  Come  on,  go  to  it  I" 

Though  every  sense  was  numb,  yet  he  knew  he  was 
being  moved,  being  unbound.  Even  while  this  was 
going  on,  he  lapsed  from  consciousness. 

Some  faint  glimmer  returned,  after  what  seemed  an 
eternity.  Free  now  though  he  was,  he  could  stir 
neither  hand  nor  foot ;  not  only  was  power  lacking,  but 


186          THE  GOLDEN  BLIGHT 

will  also.  Had  he  been  able  to  move,  even,  he  would 
have  chosen  rest.  For  the  peace  that  now  lay  on  him 
enwrapped  him  in  the  mantle  of  Nirvana. 

"Straighten  up  everything,  Danny,"  came  a  voice. 
"That's  right — now,  the  sheets  over  him,  so,  All 
O.  K.?  Fine  job,  I  call  it. 

"Now  the  keister!  Got  everything?  Careful's  the 
word — mustn't  leave  anything  lyirg  around  loose  here. 
All  right.  Now  the  gas,  boy.  Best  dope  there  is. 
All  jets — yes,  wide  open.  We're  done  now.  Come  on, 
boy,  come  on,  let's  beat  it !" 

Fine-stretched  as  a  tiny  silver  wire,  Storm's  last 
flicker  of  consciousness  perceived  the  slight  hiss-hiss- 
Tiiss  of  unlighted  gas  escaping. 

Even  the  sickly  smell  of  it  reached  his  nostrils. 

But  it  concerned  him  not.  Nothing  mattered. 
Nothing,  only  peace  and  rest  and  the  long  sleep. 

As  a  candle-flame  is  blown  out  suddenly  by  a  gust  of 
wind,  so  all  his  last  sensation  vanished. 

The  silver  wire  broke.  A  soft,  enfolding  darkness 
wrapped  him. 

"Death!"  thought  he  gratefully,  and  knew  no  more. 


CHAPTER  XXIII 

TO    WORK    AGAIN 

SICK,  very  sick,  weak  and  dazed  and  trembling,  with 
a  stabbing  pain  in  the  forehead,  a  dull,  numb  lassitude 
shrouding  him,  John  Storm  came  gradually  up,  back 
again  to  life,  to  consciousness. 

He  lapsed;  then,  groaning,  half  revived;  then  for  a 
time  lay  agonized,  sensing  only  pain  and  utter  ex 
haustion — an  exhaustion  so  acute  that  even  to  breathe, 
slowly  and  at  long  intervals,  was  anguish.  But 
thought,  returning,  urged  him  to  the  task  of  life. 

And,  scraping  all  his  scattered  forces,  as  a  miser 
might  claw  together  some  few  pence  overlooked  by 
looters,  he  managed  to  raise  himself  on  his  right  elbow 
and  with  bleared  eyes  blink  round. 

He  was  alone,  once  more.  No  sign,  no  sound  of  the 
two  criminals.  Both  had  fled. 

"God!  I  still  live?"  thought  he  vaguely.  «My 
room?  My  bed?  I'm  here.  But — " 

Exhausted,  he  fell  back.  A  little  while  he  lay  inert, 
waiting  for  the  throb-throb-throb  of  agony  in  his  head 
to  abate.  He  remembered  a  procedure  he  often  used 
when  he  had  sick-headache,  and  with  tremendous  effort 
got  his  hand  to  his  throat.  Trembling,  he  pressed 
thumb  and  index  on  his  jugulars.  The  reduced  blood- 
ressure  in  his  brain  presently  afforded  some  slight  re- 


187 


188          THE  GOLDEN  BLIGHT 

lief,  and  he  again  opened  his  dull  eyes.  His  mouth 
was  dry  and  bitter.  A  horrible  lassitude  enveloped 
him;  his  muscles  were  mere  lifeless  tissue,  his  bones  no 
stronger  than  their  marrow. 

But  the  will-power  in  him  spurred  him  on.  Dimly,  as 
in  a  dream,  he  saw  the  pulled-down  shades,  the  gas- 
fixture  near  the  chiffonier  and — with  a  wave  of  recollec 
tion — the  stop-cock  turned  full  on. 

"Gas  !"  he  remembered.     "But— I  am  still  alive !" 

He  sniffed  the  air.  Close  and  foul  and  stifling 
though  it  was,  it  still  had  not  proved  fatal.  Yet  some 
gas  was  present  there. 

"What  the  devil?"  wondered  he,  with  swimming 
senses. 

A  moment  later  he  again  reassembled  his  strength. 

"Fresh  air!"  he  thought.  "I  must  have  oxygen,  at 
once!" 

With  a  huge  effort  he  managed  to  drag  himself  to  the 
edge  of  the  bed.  Here  he  slowly  rolled  over,  with  the 
calculated  result  that  he  fell  heavily  to  the  floor,  drag 
ging  half  the  bedclothes  with  him. 

There  for  a  little  while,  wrapped  like  a  monster 
cocoon,  he  lay  waiting,  resting  for  the  next  move. 

This  move  was  longer.  It  took  him,  crawling  feebly, 
laggingly,  some  minutes  to  reach  the  rear  window  over 
looking  the  air-shaft — the  window  nearest  his  bed. 

Two  pairs  of  shoes  stood  by  the  window.  Storm 
reached  out  a  shaking  hand  and  seized  a  shoe.  He 
knew  his  strength  would  not  suffice  for  him  to  stand  up 
and  even  try  to  open  the  window.  But  the  shoe  would 
solve  his  problem. 

He  raised  it,  and  with  all  his  force  rammed  it  against 


TO  WORK  AGAIN  189 

the  glass  of  the  lower  pane.  So  palsied  was  his  hand 
that  only  at  the  third  nerveless  blow  did  the  glass  shat 
ter.  Again  and  again  he  struck,  enlarging  the  aper 
ture. 

Then  he  fell  back,  and  lay  there  under  the  window, 
eagerly  drinking  in  the  cold,  reviving  air  that  poured 
through  the  hole. 

The  sudden  inrush  of  oxygen  was  too  much  for  him. 
A  humming  grew  in  his  ears.  Everything  got  black 
before  his  eyes.  In  a  kind  of  syncope  he  lay  gasping 
on  the  floor. 

But  presently  he  revived. 

Stronger  now,  he  was  able  to  stagger  to  his  feet  by 
holding  on  to  one  of  the  brass  rods  of  his  bed.  Then, 
step  by  step,  wavering  and  uncertain  as  a  baby  learning 
to  walk,  he  made  his  way  to  the  gas-fixture  and  turned 
it  off. 

A  thought  struck  him — the  renewal  of  his  first 
wonder. 

"Why  am  I  alive  at  all?"  said  he. 

From  where  he  stood  he  could  reach  matches  in  a 
little  tin  affair  nailed  to  the  door-jamb.  He  took  one, 
weakly  struck  it,  and,  in  his  eagerness  risking  the 
chance  of  an  explosion,  turned  on  the  gas  again. 

Then,  with  a  shaking  hand,  he  applied  the  flame  to 
the  jet. 

Nothing!     No  result — no  flame! 

Too  astonished  for  a  moment  to  probe  the  cause  of 
this  most  fortunate  failure,  he  stood  there,  leaning 
against  the  wall.  But  the  spirit  of  investigation,  his 
life  instinct,  was  momently  growing  stronger  in  him  as 
his  strength  revived. 


190         THE  GOLDEN  BLIGHT 

And,  still  pale  and  sick  and  trembling,  a  strange  and 
haggard  figure  in  his  gaily  striped  paj  amas,  he  tottered 
into  the  study. 

"What?  Four-thirty?  But — I've  been  doped  here 
more  than  twelve  hours?  And  it's  now  late  after 
noon?"  he  exclaimed  as  he  caught  sight  of  the  clock. 
"And — and  noon's  past  without — great  Heavens — 
without  me  at  the  machine !  What  has  happened?" 

The  thought  set  him  shaking  again  with  sheer  weak 
ness  and  "nerves."  Here  certainly  was  an  uncounted- 
on  contingency.  For  all  he  knew  the  country  might 
have  been  swept  clean  already. 

To  his  aching  head  he  pressed  his  hand  and  tried  to 
think;  but,  dazed  as  he  still  was,  he  could  not  possibly 
remember  just  what  condition  he  had  left  the  radio- 
jector  in.  Everything  seemed  blurred  and  vague  and 
far  away  even  now. 

"No  use,"  said  he,  sinking  into  his  big  chair  a  min 
ute.  "I  can't  think — yet.  I  must  just  try  to  live." 

Here  in  the  study,  too,  all  the  windows  were  tightly 
locked  and  every  shade  pulled  down.  He  raised  his 
aching  eyes  to  the  gas-jets. 

Yes,  all  the  stop-cocks  on  the  chandelier,  as  well  as 
on  the  lights  at  either  side  of  the  mantel,  were  wide 
open.  But,  though  the  room  smelled  rather  strongly 
of  gas,  the  air  was  still  respirable. 

By  dint  of  much  grit  and  effort  he  tested  all  these 
jets  with  a  match.  At  all  the  same  result  followed. 

There  was  no  gas  ! 

"Himmel!"  croaked  Storm,  with  a  ghastly  imitation 
of  a  laugh.  "What's  the  matter,  I  don't  know.  All 
I'm  reasonably  sure  of  is  that  I'm  alive." 


TO  WORK  AGAIN  191 

He  was  strong  enough  by  now  to  get  and  put  on  his 
heavy  bath-robe  and  his  slippers.  This  done,  he  man 
aged  to  open  one  of  the  windows  looking  out  on  Danton 
Place.  Then,  while  the  good  December  air  surged 
through  the  room,  clearing  away  the  last  traces  of 
poison  from  the  atmosphere,  he  lay  back  in  his  easy 
chair,  breathed  deeply,  and  let  the  magic  potency  of 
oxygen  bring  him  back  to  life  and  sanity. 

Only  then  did  the  true  answer  of  his  riddle  strike  his 
mind.  And,  all  shaken  and  unnerved  though  he  still 
was,  he  laughed  with  something  like  his  usual  heartiness. 

"Blessed  be  poverty — and  quarter-meters !"  he  ex 
claimed.  "I  remember  now  I  haven't  put  a  quarter 
into  that  blamed  machine  for  three  days!  There 
couldn't  have  been  fifty  cubic  feet  in  it,  all  told — prob 
ably  about  enough  to  asphyxiate  a  baby.  But  if  I'd 
been  flush  and  stuffed  the  slot  full  of  quarters,  where 
would  I  be  now? 

"Ha !  This  is  Murchison's  work,  all  right  enough — 
and  blamed  rough  work,  too!  Clever  crooks,  eh?  To 
frame  a  deal  like  this — and  then  pull  it  off  with  an 
empty  gas-meter!  Clever;  I  don't  think.  Intellect — 
oh,  yes !" 

He  laughed  weakly. 

"The  fools  !     And  they're  trying  to  down  me !     Me!" 

For  a  while  he  sat  there,  steadily  reviving,  as  he  re 
flected. 

The  room  grew  very  cold.  He  got  up  and  shut  the 
window,  then  with  some  difficulty  turned  on  the  steam. 

After  this  he  mixed  himself  a  good  stiff  drink  of  his 
best  Gazinet  cognac.  This  braced  him  to  the  point 
where  he  could  take  a  hot  shower,  followed  by  a  cold 


192          THE  GOLDEN  BLIGHT 

one,  a  thorough  head-soaking  under  his  icy  needle- 
spray,  and  a  fairly  brisk  rub-down  with  a  towel  rough 
as  a  currycomb. 

It  was  a  revivified  John  Storm  who  at  five-fifteen  sat 
in  robe  and  slippers,  ruefully  counting  his  depleted  store 
of  cigars.  Beyond  the  fading  remnants  of  a  headache, 
a  stiff  and  sore  jaw  and  a  bruised  mouth — where  the  gag 
had  cut — and  a  somewhat  numb  spot  on  his  neck  where 
the  needle  had  penetrated,  he  felt  no  particular  ill  ef 
fects  from  his  manhandling. 

"Some  escape,  all  right,"  said  he  to  himself.  "In 
genious  attack,  only  parried  by  chance." 

The  room  was  growing  dark.  Outside  a  fluffy  snow 
had  begun  to  fall.  A  soft  gloom,  through  which  the 
street  lights  and  the  shop-window  illuminations  glowed 
cheerily,  had  settled  over  the  city. 

Storm  listened  eagerly  for  some  cry  of  "Hextry! 
Hextry,  here!"  but  heard  none.  Provided  anything 
had  happened  regarding  the  Blight,  no  newsboy  was 
deserting  Broadway  for  the  comparative  quiet  of  Dan- 
ton  Place. 

"I'll  see  later;  I'll  see  soon  enough,"  mused  Storm. 
"What  I  must  do  first  of  all  is  try  to  figure  this  thing; 
out  from  A  to  Z,  and  see  where  I'm  at.     One  false  step  i 
now  would  wreck  everything.     And,  moreover,  I've  got 
a  few  people  to  get  square  with." 

Dark  though  the  room  was,  he  could  not  bring  him 
self  just  yet  to  hunt  for  a  quarter  to  feed  to  the  meter 
which  had  saved  his  life.  Instead,  he  lighted  two  of  his  < 
mantelpiece  candles,  and  set  them,  in  their  pewter  sticks, 
on  the  table  before  him. 

At  one,  he  lighted  one  of  his  few  remaining  cigars. 


TO  WORK  AGAIN  193 

Then,  as  he  prepared  to  smoke  and  ponder,  his  eye  fell 
on  a  slip  of  paper  with  his  inkstand  set  carefully 
upon  it. 

"Ah,  there  it  is,  sure  enough!"  said  he,  with  quick 
memory  and  keen  interest.  "My  last  and  only  farewell 
to  the  world,  eh?" 

Cynically  he  took  it  up,  and  by  the  wavering  light  of 
his  candles,  studied  it  word  by  word,  letter  by  letter, 
stroke  by  stroke. 

"It's  certainly  one  grand  bit  of  forgery,"  he  admitted 
with  real  admiration.  "A  dandy,  or  I'm  no  judge. 
Who'd  ever  think  a  big,  burly  son-of-a-gun  like  that 
square-built  man — whom,  by  the  way,  I  intend  to  meet 
again  soon — could  turn  a  trick  like  this  ?  H-m-m-m ! 
If  I  didn't  know,  hanged  if  I  could  hardly  tell  it  from 
my  own  writing!  And,  being  done  on  my  own  sta 
tionery,  with  my  own  pen  and  ink,  right  here,  it  would 
certainly  have  got  by  any  and  all  investigation.  It 
would  have  passed  at  face  value,  all  right  enough.  I'd 
have  been  a  bona  fide  suicide,  sure  as  guns ! 

"See  that  'John  Storm'  there!  Isn't  that  magnifi 
cent?  Where  the  devil  could  they  have  got  specimens 
of  my  writing  to  copy  and  to  practise  from? 

"And — 'the  ultimate  reaction,'  "  thought  he,  reading 
the  words  of  the  forgery.  "Where  did  they  ever  rake 
that  combination  together?  Men  like  those  don't  in 
vent  'ultimate  reaction!'  Where  the  deuce?" 

Suddenly  he  realized  the  truth.  Up  he  started,  with 
an  oath. 

"So  then — my  own  report,  to  Murchison?"  cried  he. 
"That  atmospheric  nitrogen  report,  last  Tuesday 
night  ?  It  certainly  contained  those  words :  'Nothing 


194         THE  GOLDEN  BLIGHT 

can  be  definitely  stated  until  the  ultimate  reaction  has 
taken  place!' 

"And  they  called  Englewood  on  the  'phone  when  the 
job  was  finished.  They  reported!  I  remember,  I  re 
member  now !" 

He  pressed  his  head  with  both  strong  hands,  and  tried 
to  recall  the  vague,  dream-like  incidents  of  his  drug- 
intoxication,  just  before  consciousness  had  lapsed. 

Dimly,  faintly,  yet  with  sufficient  clarity  to  make 
itself  sure,  the  impression  remained  regarding  that 
Englewood  call. 

Murchison's  guilt  was  clear.  The  "ultimate  reac 
tion"  clinched  it. 

"The  infernal  villain !"  growled  Storm,  as  full  realiza 
tion  brought  anger  in  its  train.  "The  coward,  to  hire 
crooks  to  chloroform  and  bind  me,  dope  me,  turn  on 
the  gas,  and  try  to  make  me  out  a  suicide !  The  fool 
— to  dare  me  to  risk  what  I  can  do — and  will ! 

"Ingenious,  though;  I've  certainly  got  to  admit 
that,"  he  added  with  a  twinge  of  involuntary  admira 
tion.  "They  even  figured  out  they'd  have  to  do  the 
forgery  right  here,  so  as  to  use  my  paper,  ink,  and  pern. 
Nothing  was  overlooked — except  that  gas-meter. 
Good  old  meter!  I'll  have  to  buy  it  and  keep  it  for  a 
souvenir.  Gad!  It  ought  to  have  a  Carnegie  medal 
for  life  saving!  But  never  mind  about  that.  There'i 
work  to  do,  and  scores  to  settle.  Incidentally,  think 
of  the  state  of  mind  the  old  man  must  be  in,  out  there 
at  Edgecliff !  He  won't  dare  come  around  here,  or  send 
around,  to  find  out  what's  happened.  I  think  he'll  hare 
his  people  let  this  vicinity  severely  alone.  But  he'll 
get  every  paper  in  New  York,  every  edition,  and  eat 


TO  WORK  AGAIN  196 

'em  alive — waiting  for  the  suicide  news  that  somehow 
doetn't  come! 

"Well,  that's  for  him  to  worry  OTCT,  not  me.  Here's 
where  I  get  busy!" 

He  arose,  and,  his  cigar  clamped  tight  between  kit 
teeth,  began  to  pace  the  floor.  As  he  walked,  he 
thought.  Once  he  paused  to  pull  down  all  the  shades. 

"I  want  no  opera-glass  work  into  this  room  here, 
from  any  hired  place  across  the  street,"  he  muttered. 

Looking  about  the  room,  again,  he  sought  some  clue 
of  the  invaders.  He  examined  door  and  windows,  t» 
discover  if  possible  how  Murchison's  thugs  had  gaimed 
access  to  his  rooms,  but  learned  nothing. 

"Evidently  no  violence  has  been  done  here,"  thought 
he.  "They  must  have  used  a  skeleton  key,  and  an  un 
commonly  good  one,  at  that,  to  have  picked  that  patent 
lock  of  mine.  Traces,  nil — except  a  couple  of  cigar- 
stubs  which  offer  no  clue.  I  suppose  Sherlock  Holme* 
could  tell  me  those  crooks'  names  by  looking  at  the 
ashes  they've  dropped  on  the  floor;  but  that's  only  ia 
books,  and  this  is  real  life — quite  a  different  proposi 
tion.  Well,  no  matter  about  them,  anyhow.  Murchi- 
son  was  the  principal  in  this  skulduggery.  And  he's 
the  man  I'm  going  to  settle  with,  in  full !" 

With  now  a  gesture,  now  a  half-voiced  word,  now  a 
long  draw  at  the  cigar,  he  mapped  out  the  next  step  in 
his  world-campaign. 

"Gad!"  he  exclaimed  at  last  triumphantly.  "I'ye 
got  it.  When  this  strikes  Murchison — " 


CHAPTER  XXIV 

THE    DEN 

STORM'S  first  more  was  practical  in  the  extreme.  He 
went  quickly  out  into  the  hall,  and — making  sure  no- 
bodj  saw  him — dropped  a  quarter  into  the  slot  of  the 
gas  meter. 

This  would  give  him  plenty  of  light,  as  well  as  gas  to 
run  the  little  portable  stove  he  sometimes  cooked  over, 
when  too  busy  to  leave  his  work. 

"Now  if  I  only  had  a  paper,"  thought  he.  "But  it 
wouldn't  do  at  all  for  me  to  risk  going  to  the  news 
stand  on  the  corner.  My  whole  game  now  is  to  avoid 
being  seen  by  anybody." 

Fortune  was  kind.  By  the  flicker  of  the  solitary  jet 
in  the  hall,  he  saw  the  evening  journal  of  his  neighbor, 
Menard,  lying  on  the  floor. 

"Justifiable  forced  sale,"  he  remarked,  taking  the 
paper  and  leaving  a  dime  in  its  place. 

As  he  once  more  locked  himself  into  his  room,  and 
unfolded  the  paper,  huge  scare-heads  leaped  at  him — 
news,  the  substance  of  which  already  was  well  known, 
by  wireless,  to  Graf  Braunschweig  on  the  Sieger,  now 
well  past  Calais  and  through  the  Straits  of  Dover  on 
the  race  to  America. 

The  tall  type  screamed : 

196 


THE  DEN  197 

MYSTERIOUS   PERIL   SPREADING— BOSTON 
HARD  HIT! 


Philadelphia   Gold  Blighted  —  Albany,   Providence, 
Hartford  in  Panic! 


Latest  Extra. — The  unexplained  disaster  which  yesterday 
struck  Wall  Street,  has  again  smitten  the  country.  In  a  huge 
radius  centering  in  New  York  and  sweeping  the  seaboard  from 
Massachusetts  to  Delaware,  the  Blight  of  Gold  has  already  worked 
incalculable  devastation.  The  wealth  of  the  country  is  melting 
like  snow  under  a  July  sun.  Unless  some  immediate  remedy 
is  found  .  .  . 

"Hm!"  grunted  Storm,  "they'll  find  a  remedy  all 
right — oh,  yes!  It's  working,  all  right;  working  to  a 
T!  Couldn't  be  finer.  Another  day  or  two  of  this, 
and  the  pirates  will  be  howling  for  peace  at  any  price. 
I've  got  'em  on  the  run,  already — not  a  doubt  of  it!" 

He  felt  vastly  relieved  that  his  radio jector  had 
actually  functioned  in  his  absence,  and  that — on  the 
other  hand — it  had  not  exceeded  its  planned  limit  and 
"run  amuck."  His  eye  kindled  with  satisfaction  as  he 
glanced  hastily  down  the  columns  of  big  print,  skimmed 
the  sub-heads,  and  here  or  there  picked  up  a  paragraph : 

Utterly  unexplained,  sudden  and  paralyzing  as  a  lightning- 
stroke,  the  Blight  fell  over  this  whole  area  at  exactly  12  M.  For 
fifteen  minutes  only  it  operated,  but  in  that  brief  time  the  loss 
is  estimated — 

"Hang  the  loss!  Hang  the  banks!  What  do  7 
care  how  many  fail?  All  these  details  about  the  panics 
in  the  different  cities  don't  interest  me.  They're  all 
alike — same  thing,  everywhere. 

"Main  thing  is,  what's  the  System  doing?     Any  con- 


196         THE  GOLDEN  BLIGHT 

eerted  action  on  the  part  of  Murchison  and  his  asso 
ciates  in  the  profit-skinning  game?  Any  scientific 
commissions  of  mossbacks  appointed  to  try  and  solve 
a  riddle  that's  the  same  to  them  as  integral  calculus 
would  be  to  an  idiot? 

"Any  governmental  action?  Any  official  recogni 
tion  of  what's  sweeping  *the  land?  Anything  really 
worth  knowing,  except  that  my  work  is  going  on  just 
as  I  planned  and  left  it  to  do?  Bah,  these  fools — like 
a  drove  of  pigs  caught  under  a  gate ! 

"All  this,  yellow  journalistic  bunk  and  'human  inter 
est'  and  word-painting  at  a  time  like  this,  is  sickening — 
appalling!  What  I  want  and  what  the  world  wants — 
and  must  have — is  facts!" 

Impatiently  he  scanned  the  entire  paper,  but  found 
no  satisfaction. 

"One  thing's  certain,"  he  concluded.  "There's  not  a 
word  or  line  about  John  Storm  in  print.  The  old  fox 
there,  is  wise  enough  to  keep  a  tight  stopper  on  his  jaw 
about  me.  Alive  or  dead,  nothing  gets  in  concerning 
me,  via  Edgecliff.  His  game's  to  play  in  the  dark, 
stab  in  the  dark,  and  trust  to  luck  that  somehow  he'll 
head  things  off.  Well — I'll  be  letting  the  light  in  on 
him  and  his  pack  of  war-loving  polecats  before  very 
long!" 

To  all  appearances,  the  country  was  going — or  had 
already  quite  gone — mad.  Storm's  general  impression 
from  the  paper  was  an  utter,  sweeping  demoralization, 
grotesquely  out  of  proportion  with  the  actual  damage 
inflicted.  Gold  is  not  a  necessity  of  life.  It  is  neither 
food,  drink  nor  shelter.  Storm  was  destroying  noth 
ing  of  actual  human  need — no  loaf  of  bread,  no  beef, 


THE  DEN  199 

no  milk,  no  clothing — nothing  but  a  dull,  insensate 
jnetal.  Yet  the  world,  stupid  and  unreasoning,  had 
flung  itself  into  the  clutches  of  a  perfectly  irrational 
panic. 

Far  beyond  the  present  limits  of  the  Blight,  vast 
waves  and  circles  of  terror,  of  unreasoning,  insensate 
fear,  were  spreading. 

The  mass,  stampeded,  was  clearly  out  of  hand. 

In  every  city  from  ocean  to  ocean,  tremendous  and 
record-breaking  runs  on  banks  had  taken  place  or  were 
•till  in  progress. 

Every  depositor  seemed  determined  to  get  his  money 
out,  at  whatever  cost.  Everybody  seemed  possessed  by 
the  childish  idea — at  which  Storm  smiled — that  if  only 
the  actual  gold  could  be  hidden  ingeniously  enough,  BO 
loss  could  result. 

Small  banks  and  big  alike  were  bowling  over  like  s« 
many  candle-pins  struck  by  a  hurtling  box-wood  ball. 
The  paper  teemed  with  cases  of  personal  injury,  and 
even  death,  attending  the  bank  runs. 

"  'Police  and  Militia  Out  in  Two-Score  Cities,'  "  read 
Storm.  "'Mob  Fights,  Tigerlike,  at  Gates  of—' 
Pshaw!  No  use  in  wasting  time  on  this  rubbish.  Al 
ways  the  same  story — the  big  bugs  sit  tight,  while  the 
little  wigglers  wiggle,  and  fight,  and  die. 

"No  matter  if  a  few  do  get  killed  now.  Serves  'em 
right  for  having  let  a  fool  system  like  this  last  so  long ; 
a  system  based  on  a  single  metal!  Nobody  can  eat 
gold,  or  burn  gold,  or  do  anything  with  gold  except  use 
it  for  decoration  and  dentistry,  or  make  it  into  round 
tilings  called  coins,  with  a  fictitious  value.  And  yet, 
when  gold  fails — madness  !  Death !  The  bonehcads ! 


200         THE  GOLDEN  BLIGHT 

"They  aren't  working-class  people,  at  any  rate. 
The  workers  have  no  gold  or  bank-deposits  to  worry 
about.  No,  these  mobs  of  madmen  are  mostly  the  mid 
dle-class  reactionaries,  the  small  tradesmen,  petty  mer 
chants  and  exploiters,  cockroach  capitalists  and  all  the 
money-grabbing  bourgeoisie  I  have  nothing  but  scorn 
and  contempt  for.  Let  'em  mob  it,  if  they  want  to, 
and  get  their  thick  heads  smashed.  Mighty  good  thing 
for  the  world,  at  that!  The  radical  press  has  been 
trying  to  educate  'em  about  economic  truths,  for  dec 
ades,  and  have  they  been  willing  to  listen?  I  guess 
not !  But  one  swift  wallop  from  me,  where  they  live — 
in  their  pocket-books — and  they  wake  up  quick  enough, 
never  fear.  Oh,  they're  alive  now,  all  right  enough,  if 
they  never  were  before ! 

"Better  a  few  should  perish  now,  getting  rid  of  the 
whole  infernal  rubbish,  sweeping  out  the  dust  and  cob 
webs  and  making  a  fresh  start  all  clean  and  new,  than 
to  keep  on  this  way  with  panics  and  wars  and  all  the 
rest,  and  periodic  slaughter !" 

Once  more  he  glanced  at  the  paper. 

Blight!  Blight!  Blight!  Nothing  else!  The 
pages  teemed  with  disjointed  and  exaggerated  accounts 
of  endless  curious  ways  in  which  gold  had  vanished 
within  the  stricken  area;  with  stories  of  frantic  fear 
outside;  with  tales  of  hasty,  insane,  idiotic  attempts 
to  head  off  further  inroads. 

Canards  of  a  thousand  varieties  were  run  as  facts,  all 
obviously  gendered  in  the  brains  of  panic-stricken  or 
sensation-loving  editors  and  writers. 

All  these  accounts  varied  and  contradicted  each 
other.  One  paper  declared  the  Secretary  of  the  Treas- 


THE  DEN  201 

urj  was  rushing  bullion  and  coin  to  the  blighted  cities ; 
another  stated  that  he  was  recalling  all  the  gold  pos 
sible  to  the  National  Treasury,  and  there  sealing  the 
canvas  bags  in  lead-foil. 

One  reported  a  calling  of  a  hasty  joint  commission 
of  metallurgists,  scientists,  and  bankers,  at  Washing 
ton  ;  another  denied  this,  but  claimed  the  President  had 
issued  a  special  proclamation  for  a  day  of  prayer. 

The  news  was  all  distorted,  vague,  exaggerated — 
Storm  saw  at  once  it  was  wholly  unreliable.  In  a  mad 
world,  mad  news.  Even  wild,  hot  vaporings  of  war 
were  beginning  to  issue  from  the  press.  Rumors  that 
this  calamity  had  been  brought  on  by  Japan — one 
paper  even  named  the  Japanese  scientist  responsible — 
with  a  view  to  wrecking  the  United  States  and  then 
invading  and  overthrowing  it,  were  double-leaded. 
The  American  News  had  a  story,  under  two-column 
heads,  telling  of  200,000  armed  Japanese  in  Mexico, 
already  mustering  to  the  attack;  and  it  supplemented 
this  information  by  stating  that  eighteen  Japanese 
cruisers  and  dreadnaughts  had  already  sailed  from 
Kagoshima,  accompanied  by  colliers,  and  carrying  an 
air-fleet  of  one  thousand  monoplanes  capable  of  drop 
ping  fifty  cordite  bombs  apiece,  to  ravage  the  Pacific 
coast.  In  short,  national  dementia  threatened. 

"We  must  fight!     Fight!"  already  rose  the  cry. 

Fight — yes,  but  what?  Whom?  Nobody  knew,  or 
cared,  least  of  all  the  yellow  press,  so  long  as  the 
spilling  of  human  blood  was  in  prospect,  and  the  boost 
ing  of  circulation.  The  old,  waning,  dying  blood-lust 
of  mankind  was  flaring  up  again.  Struck,  man  was 
burning  to  strike  back — at  anything  in  sight. 


202         THE  GOLDEN  BLIGHT 

Storra  frowned  at  this  news ;  but  presently  he  smiled 
again. 

"War,"  mused  he,  "means  gold  to  carry  it  on.  Let 
them  try  to  fight — just  let  them  try!" 

Above  them  all.  over  all,  lay  the  unseen  hand  of  Joha 
Storm.  His  power,  at  worK  even  while  he  had  lain 
drugged  and  senseless,  had  done  its  resistless  work. 
Swift,  accurate,  stinging  as  a  nagaika-lash,  it  had 
struck  and  annihilated  an  infinitude  of  personal  adorn 
ments,  coins,  and  household  plate;  but  as  yet  no  bank 
or  government  hoards. 

"That,"  said  the  scientist,  "is  the  next  step.  If 
Murchison  won't  listen  to  reason  before  the  supreme 
crash  comes,  then  he's  responsible,  not  I.  Eh?  What's 
this?" 

A  curious  item  caught  his  glance: 

GILDED  DOME  STRIPPED! 

• 

Boston's  Famous  State  House  Loses  Gold  Leaf — The 

Hub  Stupefied  at  Loss  of  World-Renowned 

Landmark ! 

"Rot!"  he  exclaimed,  throwing  the  paper  down. 
"What's  that  to  me?  Sensationalism,  always  and 
everywhere !  The  whole  social,  economic,  and  political 
structure  of  the  country,  of  the  world,  is  trembling  to 
the  great  change — and  the  newspapers  are  printing 
rubbish  to  increase  sales. 

"Are  they  discussing  economics,  urging  sanity  and 
calmness,  pointing  out  that  the  industries,  the  mines 
and  mills,  the  factories  and  railroads  and  ships,  the 


THE  DEN  203 

la*d,  the  farms  and  forests,  the  fisheries  and  all  the 
natural  resources  are  still  intact  and  just  as  produc 
tive  and  useful  as  ever?  Hardly!  Gold  is  crumbling 
— and  they've  all  gone  mad,  stark,  staring,  raving  mad ! 

"And  the  people — blind,  groping  idiots — are  bewail 
ing  the  loss  of  a  ring  or  pin  or  a  few  coins.  A  city  is 
'stupefied'  by  the  destruction  of  a  few  hundred  square 
feet  of  gold-leaf!  What  can  I  do  with  a  world  like 
this?" 

He  got  up,  and  for  a  moment  stood  there  smoking 
with  great  irritation.  Then  he  pitched  the  cigar-end 
into  the  grate. 

"I'll  save  you  yet,  you  stupid,  blundering,  bat-eyed, 
doddering  old  world,"  said  he.  "Save  you,  in  spite  of 
yourself — for,  after  all,  you're  a  good  world.  You're 
all  the  world  I  know — and  I  love  you !" 

Briskly  now  he  turned  to  the  active  carrying-out  of 
his  further  plans. 

The  time  was  6.15.  Storm  had  eaten  nothing  for 
almost  twenty-four  hours.  He  realized  that  the  first 
thing  to  do  was  to  "stoke  up,"  as  he  called  it. 

So  he  boiled  himself  a  couple  of  eggs  and  made  some 
coffee  on  the  little  gas-stove,  and  cut  two  slices  from  a 
scandalously  dry  loaf  which  had  long  lain  in  a  paste 
board  box,  a  prey  to  mice,  on  top  of  the  bookcase. 

These  delicacies  consumed,  the  while  he  pondered, 
using  his  work-table  as  a  festal  board,  he  washed  his 
dishes  and  methodically  replaced  them. 

"Nice  tableau  this  is,  what?"  he  grimly  smiled. 
"Master  of  all  the  world's  gold,  whether  on  top  of 
domes,  in  banks,  or  government  vaults,  or  deep  in  the 
furthest  drift  of  the  Rand  mines,  yet  I  scrub  a  plate 


2<M.         THE  GOLDEN  BLIGHT 

of  tin  and  rinse  a  rusty  coffee-pot.  No  matter,  it's 
all  in  the  cause  of  science  and  the  world." 

He  put  the  room  in  order,  spread  up  his  bed,  and 
removed  all  traces  that  anything  untoward  had  hap 
pened  there. 

Quickly,  yet  methodically,  he  packed  his  hand-bag 
with  a  few  necessaries,  including  his  precious  note-book. 
The  forgery  he  carefully  put  away  in  his  bill-fold. 

Three  minutes  later,  having  turned  out  all  the  lights 
and  locked  the  door,  he  said  good-by  to  his  room  for  an 
indefinite  time. 

Cautiously  he  descended  the  stairs,  still  a  bit  weak, 
but  almost  himself  again.  Without  meeting  anybody, 
he  reached  the  street  door.  Here  he  paused  for  a  care 
ful  look  up  and  down  Danton  Place,  then  muffled  his 
face  and  tramped  away  quickly  toward  Fifteenth  Street. 

"It's  the  den  for  mine  now — till  the  end  of  the  fight," 
thought  he,  as,  hunching  his  big  ulster  collar  still  higher 
till  it  almost  met  his  roomy  slouch  cap,  he  hastened  on. 

The  thick-falling  snow  helped  blur  his  personality. 
Such  few  pedestrians  as  he  met  passed  likewise  pro 
tected  without  a  glance.  Over  on  Broadway  resounded 
some  kind  or  other  of  turmoil — he  neither  knew  nor 
cared  what  it  might  be;  but  this  side  street  was  almost 
abandoned. 

Storm  felt  certain  no  one  was  heeding  him  as  he 
made  his  way  toward  his  goal. 

This  den  of  his,  which  he  had  already  prepared  about 
three  weeks  before  in  anticipation  of  a  time  of  need, 
was  a  single  room,  windowless  save  for  a  skylight,  on 
Fifteenth,  near  Third  Avenue. 

Under  the  name  of  Benton  he  had  hired  it  from  an 


THE  DEN  205 

excellent  Italian  family  occupying  the  house.  These 
Italians,  very  well-to-do,  lived  in  the  upper  part ;  in  the 
basement  and  first  floor  they  ran  a  well-patronized  res 
taurant,  much  frequented  by  writers,  artists  and  vari 
ous  Bohemians. 

The  very  publicity  of  the  place,  its  busy  life  and 
happy-go-lucky  character,  exactly  suited  Storm's  pur 
pose. 

Here  he  could  do  about  as  he  pleased  without  ques 
tion,  provided  he  paid  his  rent  promptly.  By  the  use 
of  only  very  moderate  ingenuity  he  could  pass  as  a 
crack-brained  musician,  photographer,  or  what-not. 
Nobody  would  bother  about  him. 

"Mighty  fine  thing  I've  got  a  place  like  this  to  duck 
into,"  he  told  himself,  as  he  tramped  up  the  steps  and 
fumbled  at  the  latch  with  his  key.  "I  don't  need  any 
risit  to  my  laboratory  on  Twenty-sixth  to  assure  me  it's 
been  ransacked  clean  before  now,  and  every  blessed 
piece  of  apparatus  there  sifted  full  of  emery-powder  or 
broken  or  carted  off.  If  it  weren't  for  my  den  now 
I'd  be  right  up  against  it  hard.  Thank  heaven  my 
radio jector  is  safe  here!" 

In  the  hallway  he  met  Angelica,  the  plump,  olive- 
cheeked  and  sloe-eyed  daughter  of  the  house.  The  hall 
was  redolent  of  a  good  dinner  in  progress;  from  the 
inner  rooms  sounded  a  cheerful  clink  of  steel  knives  and 
forks,  a  somewhat  poly  glottic  chatter  of  voices  and 
hearty  laughter. 

"Buona  sera,"  he  gave  back  Angelica's  greeting  in 
Italian.  "Some  snow,  eh?  Lots  of  business  to-night? 
No,"  in  answer  to  her  question,  "I've  had  my  chow  al 
ready.  Supper.  Capite?  I  won't  be  down." 


206         THE  GOLDEN  BLIGHT 

She  flashed  a  white-toothed  smile  at  him — for  tke 
big,  erratic  American  already  pleased  her  well.  Then 
Storm,  with  no  further  parley,  climbed  to  the  topmost 
floor,  up  to  his  stronghold  under  the  eaves. 

As  he  switched  on  the  incandescent  he  glanced  witk 
satisfaction  at  his  emergency  accommodations.  A  cot, 
bureau,  wash-stand  and  book-loaded  table  of  plain  pine 
sufficed  for  him.  On  the  left-hand  wall  hung  a  verj 
large,  linen-mounted  Mercator's  projection  of  the 
world;  the  entire  land  area  was  laid  off  in  accurately 
drawn  hexagons,  traced  with  India  ink  by  a  very  fine 
pen.  Each  division  bore  a  number  in  red.  Circles  of 
various  sizes  in  green  also  covered  the  map.  AH  these 
circles  were  concentric,  with  New  York  as  their  cominem 
center. 

Beyond  these  things  there  was  little  to  note,  except  a 
newly-installed  telephone  that  stood  on  the  bureau; 
and,  against  the  further  wall,  what  seemed  an  ordinary 
trunk  of  medium  dimensions. 

It  was  at  this  trunk  that  John  Storm  looked  with 
eager  and  affectionate  eyes,  as  he  took  off  his  cap,  coat 
and  gloves,  and  with  characteristic  disorder  threw 
them  all  on  the  cot. 

"Ah,  my  beauty,  still  safe  and  sound,  eh?"  he  ei- 
claimed.  Over  to  the  trunk  he  walked,  and  fondly 
patted  it  as  though  it  had  been  sentient. 

"They'll  never  find  you  here,  that's  certain.  The 
fools,  to  tackle  me  personalty,  and  try  to  put  me  out  of 
business  !  Fools,  to  raid  the  lab.,  as  I  know  well  enough 
they've  done! 

"Gad!  While  you're  intact,  this  thing  goes  on  and 
on  and  on,  whatever  happens  to  John  Storm;  and  you 


THE  DEN  207 

*,rc  intact  and  going  to  stay  so,  too.  That's  a  thou- 
•and-to-one  shot,  every  time!" 

He  picked  up  his  corn-cob  from  the  tin  biscuit-box 
coyer  that  served  him  as  an  ash-tray;  filled  it  with  the 
fine  and  complex  blend  of  his  own  making,  which  he 
always  smoked;  and,  striking  a  match,  again  eyed  the 
trunk. 

"How  can  they  find  you,  my  beauty,"  queried  he, 
"when  they  don't  know  even  where  /  am  ?  Oh,  a  cinch ! 
Too  easy,  eh?  Robbing  a  cripple  is  herculean  beside 
it!" 

He  sat  down  in  his  single  wooden  chair,  tilted  back 
en  its  hind  legs  and,  drawing  deeply  at  his  pipe,  once 
more  surveyed  the  trunk  with  eminent  satisfaction. 

His  pleasure  in  that  sight  and  in  the  taste  of  the 
famous  blend  might  have  been  lessened  had  he  known 
that  a  man  who  had  been  watching  from  a  doorway  op 
posite  75A  Danton  Place,  had  followed  him  at  a  safe 
distance  all  the  way  to  Fifteenth  Street,  and  now  at 
that  very  moment  was  supping  on  macaroni  and  cheese, 
fried  smelts  and  red  wine,  in  the  basement  far  below. 

The  man,  swarthy,  quick-eyed  and  eminently  polite, 
had  already  made  at  least  the  preliminary  step  of  get 
ting  acquainted  with  Angelica. 

But  of  all  this  John  Storm — happily  for  his  peace  of 
mind — suspected  nothing. 


CHAPTER    XXV 

THE    LAST    DEMAND 

AT  this  same  hour,  an  angry  and  fear-struck  confer 
ence  was  going  forward  at  Edgecliff. 

When  the  second  day's  Blight  had,  promptly  at 
11.45,  smashed  into  the  tremendous  area  from  Boston 
to  Philadelphia,  Wainwright's  rage  and  consternation 
had  known  no  bounds.  Of  violent  temper  and  overfull 
habit  of  body,  he  had  just  missed  apoplexy. 

A  physician,  rushed  to  his  office  on  Broad  Street  on  a 
hurry  call,  barely  pulled  him  through  by  copious  blood 
letting.  Then  he  took  Wainwright  home  to  the  vast 
marble  congeries  of  clashing  architectural  styles  which 
the  copper  czar  had  built  on  Fifth  Avenue. 

And  thither,  despite  all  the  specialist's  positive  in 
junctions  regarding  at  least  twenty-four  hours'  abso 
lute  rest  in  bed,  Wainwright — at  the  first  possible  mo 
ment  of  release  from  the  physician's  watchful  eye — sum 
moned  Baker,  third  member  of  the  triumvirate. 

The  conversation  of  these  two  men  was  short  and  to 
the  point. 

"It's  ripping  into  us  again,  this  hellish  plague  is!" 
roared  Wainwright.  "Inferno's  loose.  If  this  keeps 
up  a  week,  I'm  broke.  So  are  you.  So's  everybody !  The 
whole  damned  business  goes  to  smash,  and  we  with  it! 

"Now  see  here,  Baker.  This  is  no  time  now  for 
208 


THE  LAST  DEMAND  209 

fine  hair-splitting  or  oaths  of  secrecy  or  anything  but 
action.  Did  you  get  the  marked  ballot?  And  if  so, 
how  about  it?  Is  the  crimson  idiot  dead  yet?" 

"/  don't  know !     I  drew  a  blank." 

"Same  here!" 

"So  then  Murchison's  the  man?" 

"He  is — damn  him!" 

Wainwright  jerked  the  telephone  toward  him. 

"660-Q,  Englewood!" 

A  pause.      Baker  paced  the  floor  nervously. 

"Not  at  his  office,  is  he?"  asked  the  Secretary  of 
War. 

"Office,  nothing!  Think  he'd  dare  go  down  to  Wall 
Street,  now? 

"This  Murchison?  Yes?  Murchison  there?  What? 
Not  back  till  six?  See  here,  you  tell  him  Baker  and 
Wainwright  are  coming  out.  We've  got  to  see  him. 
Six  sharp !  Good-by !" 

At  six-fifteen  the  three  men  were  in  conclave  in  the 
billionaire's  library — the  same  great  room  where,  so 
short  a  time  before,  John  Storm  had  first  demonstrated 
his  stupendous  power.  But  this  time  the  door  was 
carefully  shut,  with  Jinyo  on  guard,  outside,  lest  any 
ear  should  listen. 

Murchison  had  altered  greatly.  He  was  already 
worn  down  fine;  his  eyes,  as  they  wandered  round  the 
vast  apartment  or  fixed  themselves  on  his  associates* 
faces,  glowered  hollow  and  anxious  from  behind  the 
gilver-bowed  spectacles  that  bestrode  the  hawk-bill 
nose;  his  hue  was  sallow  and  sodden,  his  mustache 
bristled  raggedly,  with  much  pulling,  and  his  hand 
shook  as  it  held  the  Mindanao  whereof  now  the  savor 


210          THE  GOLDEN  BLIGHT 

and  bouquet  had  all  departed.  Wainwright,  pale  with 
loss  of  blood  as  well  as  with  consuming  anger,  seemed 
to  have  grown  flabby.  He  sat  there  glaring  at  the  rich 
est  man  in  the  world,  who  nervously  sought  to  return 
his  look.  Baker  was  agitated  and  blinking. 

"You,"  said  Wainwright,  sans  ceremonie,  glaring  at 
the  billionaire  who  could  not  meet  the  look,  "you  are 
a  Hell  of  a  success  as  an  executioner,  aren't  you? 
Oh,  yes,  a  bull's-eye  on  the  target  of  go-get-it!  Some 
pippin,  I  don't  think,  when  it  comes  to  carrying  out 
a  job,  what?  This  thing  was  left  in  your  hands, 
and—" 

"Now,  now,  see  here!     I — " 

"Can  that !  Cut  it,  and  listen !  It  was  left  for  you 
to  do.  You  could  take  care  of  it,  all  right!  You 
could  put  this  lunatic  beneath  the  daisies!  Oh,  yes! 
As  a  result — " 

"Well,  how  d'you  know  I  haven't  made  good?" 
blurted  the  financier,  flushing. 

"How  do  I  know?  What?  You  ask  me  how  I 
know,  when  this  very  day — ?" 

"Didn't  he  tell  us  himself,  no  matter  what  happened 
to  him,  the  Blight  would  go  on  working  just  the  same? 
Didn't  I  advise  all  along  that  we'd  better  treat  with 
him  and  humor  him  until  we  found  out  what  the  secret 
really  was,  what  his  apparatus  consisted  of,  and  where 
he  kept  it — then  close  in  on  that?  Didn't  I?  And 
you  opposed  it?  Baker  here  knows  I  did !" 

Quivering  with  rage  and  excitement,  he  appealed  to 
the  Secretary  of  War.  , 

"That's  certainly  true,  Wainwright,"  admitted  the 
Secretary  of  War,  while  the  copper  czar  fairly  boiled. 


THE  LAST  DEMAND  211 

I 

Murchison  nodding  vigorously,  thumped  his  fist  OM 
the  green-stone  table. 

"You  wouldn't  have  it  so !"  cried  he. 

Wainwright  thought  a  second. 

"Is  he  dead?"  blurted  he.  "If  so,  I  guarantee  we 
can  put  a  quietus  on  the  rest  of  it.  I've  set  things  in 
motion  to  fix  his  workshop  so  that  won't  bother  us  anj 
more !  But  the  man,  the  blazing,  scarlet,  howling  fiend 
— is  he  dead?" 

"I  have  every  reason  to  believe  he  is." 

"Oh,  you  have,  have  you  ?  Reason  to  believe !  You 
take  a  job  of  cardinal  importance,  the  most  important 
job  in  the  world,  and  then — have  reason  to  believe! 
You  are  one  corker — not !" 

Murchison  drummed  nervously  on  his  chair-arm  witk 
tremulous  fingers,  but  found  no  answer. 

"Have  you  seen  the  carcass,  the  remains,  the  stiff, 
the  cadaver?"  demanded  Wainwright. 

"Why— er— no." 

"Why  not?" 

"Now  see  here,  Andy,  I  couldn't  mix  up  with  this 
thing,  personally.  I  put  it  into  the  hands  of  two  of 
the  most  expert  private  detectives  in  New  York.  Old, 
experienced — hm — " 

"Murderers!     Say  it,  can't  you?" 

"This  was  to  be  no  slugging  job,  Andy,"  continued 
the  billionaire,  lowering  his  voice  and  glancing  uneasily 
about  him.  "No  crude,  sanguinary  piece  of  work, 
leaving  obvious  traces  of  assassination.  Instead,  it 
was  planned  as  a  suicide." 

"What?" 

"A  suicide,  I  tell  you.     These  men  were  to  enter 


212          THE  GOLDEN  BLIGHT 

Storm's  room,  chloroform  him  and  bind  him,  them  write 
a  note  purporting  to  be  by  him — one  of  them  is  a  most 
expert  forger,  most  expert  indeed — " 

"The  guy  you  used  in  that  K  &  B  bond  matter?" 

Murchison  nodded. 

"Well,  what  next?"  demanded  Wainwright. 

"Then  they  were  to  drug  him,  remove  the  bandages, 
leave  everything  in  a  normal  state  in  his  room,  turn 
on  all  the  gas-jets,  and  decamp." 

Wainwright  grunted  with  satisfaction,  squinting  the 
while  from  fat-lidded  eyes.  Then  he  nodded. 

"Damned  good!"  he  ejaculated,  thumping  the  table. 
"I  congratulate  you,  Henry.  Didn't  think  you  had  it 
in  you  to  frame  such  a  deal.  All  right,  so  far.  But 
what  then?  Did  it  go  through?" 

"It  did.  They  telephoned  me,  from  Storm's  room, 
that  the — er — the  job  was  completed,  and — " 

"You  trust  them?" 

"Absolutely!  Faithful  fellows,  both.  Once  their 
word's  given — " 

"I  know.  But,  the  body?  Have  you  had  any 
proofs  in  that  way?  Has  anyone  seen  it?  Have  the 
papers  mentioned  it?  I've  read  'em  all,  and  not  a 
line—" 

"I  know;  but  naturally  you  couldn't  expect  me  to 
risk  too  much,  by  starting  any  inquiry.  It  can  be 
done,  though,  very  easily.  Quite  so.  This  very  night 
we  can  assure  ourselves — " 

A  sudden  sharp  ringing  of  the  telephone-bell  inter 
rupted  him. 

"Hello,  hello !"  replied  Murchison,  pulling  the  instru 
ment  toward  him  on  the  table.  "Telegraph-office  call- 


THE  LAST  DEMAND  213 

ing,  you  say?  All  right,  yes,  this  is  Mr.  Murchison 
talking  now.  Eh?  Wireless,  in  code?  Go  ahead, 
let's  have  it." 

He  added  to  Baker: 

"Take  this  down,  will  you?  I'll  give  it  to  you  as  it 
comes." 

The  secretary  drew  out  his  fountain  pen  and  across 
the  back  cover  of  a  Brazilian  consular  report  which 
lay  on  the  polished  table-top,  transcribed  the  message: 

Intent  level  omicron  velum  energy  loam  unequal  cam  indirect 
lunar  leave  empire  white  intent  tram  health  abbott  large  lien 
mental  yea  hour  effect  art  respite  travail.  BRAUNSCHWEIG. 

At  sound  of  the  name,  Murchison  started  and  grew 
pale. 

"What?"  cried  he.     "He?" 

"Who?"  exclaimed  Baker.     "You  mean  Storm?" 

"No,  no  !     Braunschweig !" 

"Graf—?" 

"Of  course!" 

"Maximilian  Braunschweig !" 

Wainwright  flung  out  an  oath.  The  three  men, 
struck  with  annihilating  astonishment,  stared  blankly 
at  each  other. 

The  traditional  devil  loves  holy  water,  by  comparison 
with  the  hate  wherein  these  three  bore  the  stupendous 
personality  of  the  great  Jewish  financier.  And  for  a 
moment  no  word  was  spoken. 

Then  Murchison  flung  the  receiver  on  to  the  hook 
with  a  bang. 

"What  in  Hell  does  he  want?"  snarled  Wainwright. 
"What  the  devil?" 


214         THE  GOLDEN  BLIGHT 

Murchison  made  no  answer,  but  very  grimly  seized 
the  consular  report  and  stared  at  it. 

Then  he  adjusted  his  glasses  on  his  thin  nose-bridge. 
"It's  in  the  L.  G.  code,"  said  he. 
"Go  on,  read  it!"  blurted  the  secretary  eagerly. 
For  the  moment,  John  Storm  had  been  completely 
swept  from  the  thoughts  of  the  Triumvirate. 

Murchison  jerked  open  the  table  drawer,  rummaged 
for  a  moment  and  brought  out  the  small,  leather-bound 
book  containing  all  the  codes  he  used. 

"Let's  see  now,  let's  see — the  L.  G. !"  said  he  in  a 
shaken  voice  he  tried  in  vain  to  render  steady. 
The  others  watched  him  in  grim  silence. 
"What  is  it?"  ejaculated  the  secretary.      "Quick! 
What's  up?" 

"Freely  rendered,  here's  the  idea."  He  paused  a 
little  as  though  marshaling  his  thoughts. 

"Go  on,  go  on,  can't  you?"  urged  Wainwright. 
"Braunschweig  evidently  knows  what's  happening!" 
"He  ought  to;  with  his  private  cables  and  wireless. 
But — come  on,  let's  have  it !" 
"He  says,  in  effect : 

"If  you  know  the  person  causing  gold-destruction,  do  not 
oppose  or  impede  him  in  that  work.  I  hope  to  cooperate  with 
you.  Incalculable  profits  possible.  Shall  be  in  New  York  in 
four  and  a  half  days.  -BRAUNSCHWEIG/' 

For  a  moment  silence.      Then  Wainwright  roared: 
"The   devil   you   say!     What's   Tie   butting  in   for? 
Haven't  we  got  trouble  enough  of  our  own  without  any 
more,  'made  in  Germany'?     He'd  better  keep  off  our 
grass,  that's  all  I've  got  to  offer ! 


THE  LAST  DEMAND  215 

"He's  coming,  is  he?  Going  to  help  us,  is  he? 
Some  nerve!  But — nothing  doing,  Dutch!  Outside, 
for  his!  Say—!" 

Murchison  looked  up  quickly.      He  was  calmer  now. 

Some  new  and  big  idea  had  suddenly  taken  posses 
sion  of  him.  A  certain  crafty  glitter  in  his  brighten 
ing  eye  boded  no  good  to  whomso  would  oppose  him. 
But  he  spoke  in  even,  natural  tones. 

"This  is  certainly  a  new  complication,"  said  he.  "I 
reckon  a  lot  depends  on  just  how  we  meet  it.  Evidently 
he  scents  a  kill,  or  he'd  never  start  for  the  States,  like 
this.  Question  is,  if  there  is  a  kill  in  prospect,  are  we 
smart  enough  to  find  it  out  for  ourselves,  and  get  it; 
or  have  we  got  to  wait  for  a  German  to  walk  in  here 
and  retrieve  it  out  from  under  our  very  noses?" 

Wainwright  growled,  deep  in  that  gross  throat  of 
his.  The  billionaire  continued: 

"All  this  about  cooperation  with  me  is  so  much  rub 
bish.  I  know  Braunschweig !  He  cooperates  with  no 
body  !  If  he  does,  the  other  party's  rake-off  is  always 
minus  zero.  We've  got  to  think  this  thing  over. 
I've  had  dealings  with  the  Graf.  So  have  you,  Andy. 
You,  Baker,  remember  that  matter  of  the  1904  issue  of 
3's?  That  was  cooperation  for  you,  with  a  vengeance. 
Cooperation — yes  indeed!  There's  time  yet,  if  we  hit 
it  right,  to  head  him  off  and  win  out,  all  round.  If  he 
gets  a  Hhank  you,'  I  reckon  that'll  be  enough  for  him !" 

"A  'thank  you'?"  inquired  Baker.      "What  for?" 

"For  the  tip,  of  course." 

"You  don't  mean,"  retorted  Baker,  "you're  going  to 
pay  any  attention  to  that?  And  let  this  howling,  gib 
bering  maniac  wreck  the  whole  of  our  organized  society) 


216          THE  GOLDEN  BLIGHT 

And  trust  to  luck  to  snatch  a  few  scraps  of  his  leav 
ings?" 

"After  the  way  Murchison  has  handled  the  case  so 
far,"  growled  Wainwright,  "I  certainly  don't  credit  him 
with  any  more  sense  than  to  do  just  that!" 
The  billionaire  flushed,  but  held  his  temper. 
"Gentlemen,"  said  he,  "there's  nothing  gained  by  in 
dulging  in  personalities  at  a  time  like  this.  We're 
dealing  with  a  tremendously  vital,  serious,  dangerous  set 
of  problems.  We  must  all  hang  together,  as  what's- 
his-name  said,  you  know,  or  I'm  damned-if  I  don't  think 
we  stand  a  mighty  good  chance  of  all  hanging  sep 
arately  ! 

"The  public  at  large  isn't  going  to  put  up  with  this 
very  much  longer.  You  know  what's  going  on  already 
— mobs,  militia,  bank-wrecks,  and  all.  Baker,  here,  has 
been  summoned  back  to  Washington.  That  means 
army's  got  to  be  overhauled  and  put  in  shape  for  pos 
sible  contingencies,  doesn't  it,  Baker?" 

"State  secret,  Murchison,  but  I  don't  mind  saying  it 
does." 

And  Baker  rubbed  his  hands  together  like  a  merchant 
touting  wares. 

"If  it  comes  to  the  lead  cure  for  the  gold  panic — 
we're  on  the  job,  that's  all." 
Murchison  smiled  faintly. 

"Yes,  yes,  of  course,"  assented  he.  "But  you  can't 
always  count  on  the  army,  either.  We  all  remember 
several  historic  crises  where,  somehow  or  other,  things 
didn't  work  as  expected  and  the  guns  turned  round  the 
other  way. 

"Now  I,  for  one,  don't  hanker  to  stand  at  the  busi- 


THE  LAST  DEMAND  217 

ness  end  of  a  gun,  or  at  either  end,  for  that  matter. 
Storm  was  right,  so  far — we  fellows  don't  love  the  fir 
ing-line.  No,  nor  the  lamp-post  and  the  hemp,  either; 
nor  yet  the  guillotine.  You  know  the  public  temper  the 
last  few  years ;  things  have  been  drifting  a  bit.  This, 
on  top  of  everything,  might  just  possibly  touch  off  the 
bonfire.  The  fools  lay  everything  that  happens  to  us. 
And  if  this  goes  too  far — " 

"The  qualified  Dutchman  had  better  keep  out  of  our 
private  preserves,  that's  all  I've  got  to  say !"  inter 
rupted  Wainwright  angrily.  "Our  crowd  has  managed 
this  country  long  enough  to  know  the  ropes.  I  guess 
if  it  comes  to  that  little  'whiff  of  grape'  to  clear  the 
atmosphere.  Baker,  here,  can  deliver  the  goods  all 
right!" 

"We  mustn't  act  hastily,  in  any  event,"  urged  Mur- 
chison.  "We've  got  to  think  this  out,  and  think 
straight.  There's  lots  of  time.  He  can't  get  here,  at 
the  inside,  sooner  than  Monday  afternoon.  We've  got 
leeway  to  plan  for  his  reception.  If  we  work  it  right, 
we  can  not  only  head  off  the  Graf,  but  possibly  also 
get  hold  of  his  scheme  and  turn  his  own  guns  on  him." 

Wainwright  nodded  vigorous  approval,  as  he  ex 
claimed  : 

"It's  our  job,  anyhow.  Storm  is  our  job,  and  his 
infernal  radium  stunt  or  whatever  it  is — all  ours.  The 
country's  ours!  We'll  manage  it — no  Heiny  need 
apply !  Even  if  Storm  isn't  dead — and  I'd  give  a  mil 
lion,  this  minute,  to  see  his  head  lying  right  there  011 
that  table! — we  can  handle  both  him  and  the  Dutch 
man.  This  message  is  nothing  but  a  stall — a  clear  case 
of  bluff.  The  Graf  would  like  nothing  better  than  to 


218         THE  GOLDEN  BLIGHT 

have  you  keep  hands  off  this  lunatic  and  let  him  wreck 
America,  so  he  could  gulp  the  pieces.  What!  You 
stand  for  any  such  a  steer  as  that?" 

He  slapped  his  knee  with  a  big,  well-groomed  hand, 
and  set  his  jaw  at  an  ugly  angle.  Murchison  consid 
ered  before  he  answered. 

"Yes,"  said  he  at  last,  "but  if  Braunschweig  under 
stands  things  better  than  we  do,  and  if  he  sees  a  way 
for  us  to  clean  up — " 

"If  your  grandmother !"  roared  Wainwright.  "For 
get  that,  can't  you?  The  main  thing  just  now  is  where 
is  Storm?  And  where's  his  machine?  And  how  blue- 
blanked  quick  can  we  put  'em  both  out  of  commission? 

"Any  temporizing,  now,  is  sheer  insanity,  Murchison. 
If  Braunschweig  butts  in,  that  means  war  to  the  knife. 
Don't  be  an  ass,  on  top  of  being  a  confounded  hypo 
crite,  and — " 

Murchison,  stung  to  the  quick,  at  last,  was  about  to 
retort  hotly  when  a  sharp  rapping  at  the  door  inter 
rupted  him. 

"Who  is  it?"  called  he. 

"Jinyo,  sar,"  answered  a  voice.     "Message  for  you." 

For  a  moment  the  triumvirate  kept  silence.  Instinct 
seemed  to  warn  them  some  vital  thing  was  forward. 
Then  the  billionaire  cried : 

"All  right— let's  have  it !" 

Jinyo  brought  in  the  letter,  salaamed,  and  retired. 

Murchison  peered  curiously  at  the  writing  on  the 
envelope. 

In  an  ordinary  clerical  hand,  it  told  him  nothing. 

"Go  on,  open  it!"  exclaimed  Wainwright,  brutally. 

So  nervous  was  the  billionaire  that,  in  ripping  the 


THE  LAST  DEMAND  219 

cad  off  the  envelope,  he  tore  the  fold  of  the  letter  within. 
The  sheet  came  out,  raggedly  divided  into  two  pieces. 

With  an  oath  he  spread  them  on  the  table-top  and 
fitted  them  together. 

The  three  men,  crowding  close  beneath  the  opalescent 
light,  read,  by  leaps  and  bounds  : 


YORK  (address  not  important), 

To-day. 
VAIT   HOHNE   Muacmsoar,   Esq., 

Englewood,  New  Jersey. 
DBAS  SIR: 

Here's  a  new  proposition.  Since  the  original  one  has  not  been 
satisfactorily  acted  upon,  I  make  another. 

Unless  you  comply  with  my  demands  before  to-morrow  at  11:45, 
I  shall  execute  a  coup  of  tremendously  more  importance  and 
vastly  larger  scope.  It  will  involve  not  only  America,  but  part 
of  Europe  as  well.  On  your  own  head  be  the  consequences! 

On  the  fifth  day  derelopments  will  take  place  which  you 
cannot,  at  this  time,  even  imagine.  The  results  to  you,  botk 
financially  and  personally,  cannot  fail  to  be  disastrous. 

Again  I  warn  you  not  to  attempt  to  interfere  with  me  or  with 
my  apparatus.  In  the  first  place,  you  will  fail  again,  as  before; 
in  the  second,  you  will  only  hasten  disaster  to  yourself  and  to  the 
capitalist  class. 

At  any  time,  the  process  of  disintegration  can  be  stopped  by 
surrender.  The  signal  that  you  have  given  in  will  be  a  large 
white  flag,  to  be  flown  from  the  top  of  the  Metropolitan  Tower. 
No  other  will  be  heeded  or  accepted. 

You  now  have  all  the  essential  facts.  You  know  my  demands. 
You  can  possibly  foresee  the  results  of  not  yielding. 

The  sooner  the  flag  flies,  the  better  for  you,  for  the  nation, 
and  for  the  world  at  large. 

Your  move!  THE  BLIGHT. 


CHAPTER    XXVI 


NOT  ten  minutes  after  the  reading  of  this  amazing 
letter,  and  while  the  three  men  in  the  library,  in  their 
own  ways,  were  still  reacting  from  the  shock  of  it,  the 
telephone  rang  again. 

Over  the  wire  came  a  voice  demanding  speech  with 
Murchison.  When  the  billionaire  inquired  this  stran 
ger's  business,  warning  him  that  no  reporter  could  pass 
the  guarded  gates  of  Edgecliff,  the  unseen  one  whis 
pered  a  few  words  that  brought  Murchison  up  all  stand 
ing,  as  the  phrase  is. 

"You  mean  that?"  questioned  the  billionaire,  with 
terrible  eagerness?  You  know?" 

"I  do,  and  can  prove  it.  Will  you  give  me  a  few 
minutes  of  your  time?"  came  the  question. 

"Where  are  you?" 

"Never  mind.  Say  the  word,  and  I'll  be  with  you 
in  fifteen  minutes." 

"Then  come,  at  once!  Say  'urgent'  to  the  lodge- 
keeper." 

"I'm  on !     Good-bye !" 

Murchison  called  the  lodge-keeper,  on  the  private 
line  that  covered  the  house  and  grounds,  and  bade 
him  let  a  man  pass,  soon  to  arrive,  with  "urgent"  for 
a  countersign.  And  then  followed  anxious  moments,  in 

220 


STORM'S  RADIOJECTOR,         221 

the  library;  and  conversation  lagged.  But  Storm's 
letter  passed  from  hand  to  hand  for  many  a  re-reading ; 
and  if  a  hundredth  of  the  curses  heaped  on  its  author 
could  have  taken  effect,  the  scientist  would  have  gone 
to  the  Bottomless  Pit  with  no  delay. 

"Urgent"  arrived  in  the  library  exactly  twelve  and 
one-quarter  minutes  after  his  call  over  the  wire.  He 
proved  to  be  a  swarthy,  short,  active  man,  with  some 
kind  of  foreign  accent  and  penetrant  eyes.  Well  at 
ease,  he  sat  down  without  being  invited,  and  reached  for 
a  cigar,  which  he  lighted  with  aplomb. 

"Who  are  you,  and  what  do  you  know?"  demanded 
Murchison,  abruptly. 

"My  name  don't  matter,"  the  new-comer  answered. 
"I'm  an  independent  operator,  a  free-lance  in  the  detec 
tive  world.  I  know  you're  after  John  Storm — " 

"How  did  you  find  out?" 

"It's  my  business  to  find  out  things." 

"And  you  know  where  he  is,  now?" 

"I  do.     After  your  two  men  failed — " 

"You  know  about  that,  too?"  exclaimed  the  billion 
aire. 

"I  followed  Storm,"  the  other  continued,  taking  no 
notice  of  the  interruption.  "I  know  where  he  is,  at 
this  moment.  I  have  a  room  in  the  same  house.  His 
apparatus  is  there.  He's  working  in  that  place.  No 
body  but  me  knows  anything  about  it.  I  can  turn  the 
trick  for  you.  How  much?" 

Wainwright,  smiling  with  satisfaction,  met  the  new 
comer  more  than  half  way. 

"Listen,"  said  he.  "I  don't  care  where  he  is,  and 
won't  ask  you,  because  you  wouldn't  tell,  an;,rhow. 


222          THE  GOLDEN  BLIGHT 

That's  jour  rake-off,  that  knowledge  is.  You  nail 
him,  and  do  it  right,  kill  him  and  break  up  his  ma 
chinery,  and  present  proofs  to  me,  personally,  and  I'll 
give  you  five  thousand  in  cash — no  checks,  the  real 
stuff." 

The  other  laughed  drily. 

"A  hundred  thousand  is  my  bottom  figure,"  he  an 
swered.  "Not  that  the  job's  hard.  But  it's  worth 
ten  times  that  to  you — yes,  a  thousand  times.  No 
body  can  do  it  but  me.  A  hundred  thousand!  Get 
me?" 

Silence,  a  moment. 

"God !  You're  gouging  deep !"  muttered  the  copper 
czar. 

"Yes,  and  you're  going  to  come  across,  too,"  re 
torted  the  other,  inhaling  a  lungful  of  heavy  smoke. 
"One  hundred  thousand.  That,  or  nothing!" 

"But — "  Murchison  began. 

"Can  it !"  exclaimed  Wainwright.     "I  accept." 

"Then  have  the  stuff  on  tap,  to-morrow  noon,  at  your 
office,"  said  the  other.  "Storm  and  his  apparatus  will 
both  be  dead  ones,  by  morning." 

"And  then?  You  trust  me  to  pay?"  asked  Wain 
wright.  "You  have  confidence  in  me,  with  no  writing 
to  show?" 

The  stranger  laughed  disagreeably. 

"Not  a  damn  bit  of  it !"  he  retorted.  "But  after  the 
job's  done,  you'll  come  across,  all  right.  You  won't 
snitch,  and  you'll  pay.  Why?  I  know  too  much, 
every  way.  So  I  take  your  word.  Now  that  it's 
given,  I  don't  need  to  stick  around  any  longer.  I've 
got  a  job  to  do.  You'll  see  me  at  noon,  to-morrow." 


STORM'S  RADIOJECTOR         223 

He  picked  up  his  hat,  nodded  easily  to  the  three, 
turned  on  his  heel  and  left  the  library. 

At  eleven  o'clock  of  that  same  night — while  in  the 
library  at  Edgecliff  excited  controversy  was  still  go 
ing  on  between  Murchison  and  the  copper  czar,  after 
Baker  had  left  to  catch  the  "Owl"  to  Washington — 
John  Storm  in  his  well-hidden  little  attic  den  was  pre 
paring  for  the  next  step  in  his  war  against  war. 

The  scientist  was  fresh  and  fit  again,  by  now,  hav 
ing  wholly  recovered  from  the  effects  of  the  murderous 
attempt  upon  him. 

Having  thrown  consternation  into  Murchison's  camp, 
via  the  telephone,  he  was  now  calmly  making  ready  to 
overhaul  his  radio jector  for  to-morrow's  work.  Al 
though  it  would  have  functioned  even  without  him,  yet 
;he  billionaire's  attack  had  greatly  changed  his  plans. 
And  now  he  purposed  striking  a  far  harder  blow  than 
ic  had  otherwise  intended. 

He  lighted  one  of  his  few  remaining  cigars,  then  took 
rrom  his  pocket  a  key-ring,  chose  one  certain  key,  and 
approached  the  trunk  which  stood  against  the  wall. 

More  than  a  week  before  his  first  demonstration  on 
Murchison's  double-eagles  at  Englewood,  he  had  had 
:his  trunk  sent  to  the  den.  Outwardly  exhibiting  no 
peculiarities,  it  none  the  less  constituted  the  very  heart, 
the  crux  of  the  entire  Blight. 

Its  lock,  apparently  simple,  was  in  reality  a  complex 
combination,  made  of  tool-steel  by  Storm  himself  after 
lis  own  designs. 

Under  the  wooden  strips  and  canvas  cover  of  the 
,runk  lay  thin,  laminated  plates  of  chrome  steel;  the 


224          THE  GOLDEN  BLIGHT 

trunk  was  really  a  light  but  excessively  powerful  safe, 
masked  with  appearances  of  nimsiness. 

"Even  old  Max  Shinburn  himself,  king  of  cracksmen, 
would  have  an  interesting  hour  or  two  trying  to  'crush' 
this!"  smiled  Storm  as  he  inserted  the  key  that  let  fall 
a  plate  exposing  the  combination  lock. 

This  he  deftly  manipulated.  In  less  than  half  a  min 
ute  the  trunk  was  open  and  the  cover  raised. 

Inside  appeared  a  curious  mechanism.  At  the  left  a 
powerful  series  of  storage  batteries,  very  compact  and 
potent — also  designed  lay  Storm — occupied  about  one- 
quarter  of  the  space.  Induction  coils  and  certain  other 
apparatus  which  only  Storm  himself  could  have  named, 
and  of  which  certainly  no  plans  ever  had  been  registered 
in  the  Patent  Office,  came  next. 

At  the  right  a  large,  flat,  hard-rubber  plate  was 
pierced  by  serried  rows  on  rows  of  binding-posts — or, 
rather,  hollow  copper  pegs.  Of  these  there  were  six 
hundred  and  eighty-one. 

On  the  inside  of  the  trunk  lid  itself,  another  Merca- 
tor  projection  was  fastened,  pierced  also  by  a  host  of 
copper  pegs.  From  such  of  these  as  formed  a  circle 
around  the  point  indicating  New  York — a  circle  with 
its  circumference  approximately  cutting  Boston,  Al 
bany,  Harrisburg  and  Baltimore — fine,  green-insulated 
wires  extended  to  a  similar  circle  on  the  hard-rubber 
plate  below. 

"I  guess  I'll  widen  the  field  of  operations  enough  this 
time  to  show  'em  I'm  in  earnest,"  said  Storm  to  him 
self,  as  he  drew  up  his  chair  and  sat  down  before  the 
radio  jector. 

Then,  like  a  man  who  knows  his  job  from  A  to  Z,  he 


STORM'S  EADIOJECTOR         225 

began  breaking  the  connections  and  plugging  them  in 
on  a  vastly  larger  scale. 

Suddenly  he  paused.  Outside  his  door,  it  seemed  to 
him  a  foot  had  creaked  a  board.  He  had  a  peculiar 
feeling  someone  was  standing  there,  listening  or  trying 
to  peek  through  the  keyhole. 

Silently  he  got  up  and  tiptoed  to  the  door.  He 
listened  a  moment,  then  quickly  unlocked  it,  jerked  it 
open  and  looked  out  into  the  dark  upper  hall. 

Nobody  there. 

It  seemed  to  him  a  door  closed  softly,  somewhere; 
but  in  the  gloom  he  could  see  nothing. 

Pie  waited  a  moment,  to  make  sure  no  one  was  spying, 
then  went  back  into  the  den  and  once  more  locked  his 
door. 

"Getting  an  attack  of  nerves,  myself,  am  I?"  he 
grumbled.  "Forget  it!" 

Steadily  he  worked  for  about  ten  minutes.  From 
time  to  time  he  took  more  and  more  wires  from  a  small 
but  deep  drawer  at  the  extreme  right  of  the  apparatus. 
By  the  time  his  connections  were  all  made,  a  compli 
cated  nexus  of  wires  stretched  like  a  coarse  green  web 
from  the  chart  to  the  plate. 

"There,  I  shouldn't  wonder  if  that  would  do  the  busi 
ness  !"  he  concluded  at  length,  leaning  back  and  puffing 
at  his  weed.  "Now  for  the  time-adjustment,  wave 
length,  rhythm  and  velocity." 

Down  along  the  sides  of  the  Mercator  and  across  its 
top  ran  a  series  of  brass  dials,  switches,  knobs,  buttons 
and  small,  glistening  levers. 

Storm  busied  himself  for  another  five  minutes  with 
these,  arranging,  rearranging,  altering,  combining  and 


226         THE  GOLDEN  BLIGHT 

adjusting  his  effects.  Once  he  got  up  and  went  over  to 
the  table,  where  he  covered  a  couple  of  sheets  of  scratch- 
paper  with  a  tangle  of  formulas,  X's,  Y's,  Z's,  sines, 
cosines  and  logarithms. 

"H-m-m-m!"  he  grunted.  "Lucky  I  thought  of 
that!  The  combination  of  effect  diminishing  as  the 
cube  of  the  distance,  and  the  chronological  difference 
between  here  and  Europe,  introduces  some  pretty  prob 
lems  !" 

Then,  having  solved  the  matter,  he  went  back  to  his 
machine,  and  for  a  few  minutes  longer  busied  himself 
in  readjusting  the  combinations. 

"That's  right  now;  dead  right  every  way!"  judged 
he  at  last.  "Now  I'll  add  just  a  little  extra  power  and 
then  she'll  do." 

From  the  drawer  he  took  a  long  double  wire  with  an 
ordinary  electric-light  connection  at  each  end.  He  un 
screwed  the  incandescent  from  one  of  the  two  lights  in 
his  room,  screwed  one  plug  into  this  socket  and  the 
other  into  a  socket  placed  between  the  batteries  and 
the  rubber  plate. 

Then  he  turned  on  the  current.  A  low,  gradually 
rising  hum  issued  from  somewhere  in  the  interior  of  the 
radio jector,  and  a  small  black  needle  on  one  of  the  dials 
began  to  mount  very  slowly. 

Keen-eyed,  Storm  watched  this.  When  it  registered 
1,500,  he  switched  off  the  current,  disconnected  and 
stowed  the  wires  away. 

Then  he  threw  a  handle  and  turned  out  the  remain 
ing  light. 

"Got  to  be  sure  everything's  O.  K.,"  said  he,  sitting 
down  again  to  watch. 


STORM'S  RADIOJECTOR         227 

A  singular  effect  began  to  grow  visible.  In  the  dark 
of  the  room  the  outlines  of  the  trunk  gradually  com 
menced  to  show — shadows  in  a  vague  and  ghostly  light 
which,  pulsing  with  extreme  rapidit}^  pierced  the  steel 
as  easily  as  sunlight  traverses  plate-glass. 

White  at  first,  the  light  gradually  assumed  a  yellow 
ish  hue.  As  it  strengthened,  the  whole  interior  mechan 
ism  became  apparent,  infinitely  complex,  adumbrated 
by  the  unearthly  and  aurora-like  gushes  of  illumination. 

The  light,  from  yellow,  went  green,  then  blue,  then  a 
dazzling  purple. 

Storm  glanced  behind  him  at  his  shadow  on  the  plain, 
white-plastered  wall. 

There,  seated  on  the  merest  dim-shaded  suggestion  of 
a  chair,  was  a  human  skeleton.  As  Storm,  smiling, 
raised  his  hand  and  worked  the  fingers,  the  skeleton 
hand,  utterly  fleshless,  did  the  same. 

"Regular  vaudeville  stunt,  eh?"  said  he.  "Nice  for 
elderly  nervous  persons  and  children !  But  it  wouldn't 
be  a  circumstance  to  them  by  comparison  with  what  to 
morrow's  real  performance  will  be  to  the  gold-grubbers ! 

"Well,  no  use  wasting  power.  The  whole  thing's 
working  to  perfection.  Give  me  another  uninterrupted 
week  and  I'll  have  'em  all  so  far  in  quod  that  they'll  be 
so  much  putty  in  my  hand.  Putty?  Soft  mud!" 

He  leaned  forward  and  threw  off  the  switch.  The 
light  went  blood-red,  flickered  a  few  times  and  died. 
Then  Storm  stepped  over  to  the  incandescent  and  was 
about  to  turn  the  button,  when  all  at  once  he  stopped. 

Stock-still  he  stood,  listening.  In  the  dark,  his  fist 
clenched  with  the  eagerness  of  his  attention.  He  held 
his  breath  to  hear. 


228          THE  GOLDEN  BLIGHT 

Above  him,  at  the  skylight  which  looked  down  upon 
his  bureau  and  table,  but  did  not  command  a  view  of 
the  trunk,  a  faint  scratching  sound  seemed  to  have 
made  itself  audible. 

Motionless,  Storm  gave  ear.      But  he  heard  nothing. 

He  did  not,  however,  turn  on  the  light. 

Instead,  he  tiptoed  to  the  bureau  where,  on  coming 
into  the  room,  he  had  set  his  hand-bag. 

This  bag  he  noiselessly  opened. 

From  it  he ,  took  his  flash-lamp.  Then,  pointing  the 
tube  upward  toward  the  sort  of  shaftlike  box  at  the  top 
of  which  the  skylight  was,  he  pressed  the  button. 

The  white  arrow  of  light  showed  that,  on  the  snow- 
covered  pane  above,  a  little  space  had  been  scraped 
clear.  No  eye  appeared  at  it,  but  the  peep-hole  was 
conclusively  eloquent  of  furtive  observation.  Storm 
knew  somebody  had  been  trying  to  spy  on  him — some 
body  who,  when  the  room  had  gone  dark,  had  probably 
shrunk  back  into  the  lee  of  the  chimney  for  shelter. 

The  scientist  pushed  the  button  again  and  extin 
guished  the  electric  beam.  Then,  angrier  than  he  had 
almost  ever  been  in  his  whole  life,  he  flung  himself  down 
on  the  cot  to  think.  Rather,  to  try  to  think ;  for  rage 
blurred  his  reason. 

All  at  once,  an  idea  recurred  to  him — a  memory  of 
the  suspicious  sound  he  had  thought  to  hear  at  his  door, 
some  time  ago.  He  recalled  the  feeling  of  suspicion  he 
had  felt,  and  swiftly  pieced  his  evidence  together. 

"Damn  them  !"  he  growled.  "Can't  I  shake  them  off? 
How  the  devil  does  anybody  know  I'm  here  now?  How 
did  that  ruffian  get  up  there  on  to  that  roof;  how  did 
he  know  which  skylight  looked  down  into  this  room? 


STORM'S  RADIOJECTOR        229 

Search  me!  But  no  matter — I'm  up  against  it  now  if 
I  don't  'get'  him  some  way  before  morning,  and  make 
a  paralyzing  example  of  him!  It's  got  to  be  done 
quietly,  too.  No  noise,  no  blood — quietly  and  with 
science,  or  I  may  find  myself  in  Dutch." 

For  a  while,  grown  calmer  now,  he  pondered. 

"If  a  man's  house,  or  his  room,  isn't  his  own  castle, 
then  there's  no  such  thing  as  law,"  he  at  length  con 
cluded.  "I  don't  know  as  there  is  any  law  at  all  when 
it's  a  case  of  ordinary  people  vs.  plutocracy.  If  not, 
I'll  make  my  own. 

"Let's  see  now.  I  reckon  it  this  way:  That  skunk, 
up  there,  won't  go  far.  He's  after  me,  to  put  me  in 
my  wooden  ulster;  and  he's  after  the  machine,  to  bust 
the  devil  out  of  it,  the  way  those  rough-necks  smashed 
my  lab.  This  affair  is  going  to  be  pulled  off  at  once. 
He'll  probably  skulk,  up  there,  till  he  figures  I'm  asleep, 
and  then  drop  in  for  a  call. 

"If  he  gets  away  with  it,  I  suppose  he'll  win  a  mighty 
fine  bundle  from  the  Mammonites.  If  he's  caught,  he's 
got  backing  that  would  clear  him  on  any  charge  from 
housebreaking  to  murder.  But  he  doesn't  expect  to 
get  caught.  There's  no  reason  to  believe  he  suspects 
I  know  he's  up  there. 

"No,  he  thinks  I'm  still  in  blissful  ignorance  on  that 
score.  All  right;  my  game  is  to  keep  him  so.  He's 
doubtless  waiting  for  me  to  go  out.  Shall  I  accommo 
date  him?  Rather!" 

He  reflected  a  minute,  trying  to  visualize  the  lay  of 
the  land. 

"If  I  figure  rightly,"  he  thought  at  last,  "the  roof 
slopes  pretty  sharply  toward  the  rear — the  eaves  ought 


230         THE  GOLDEN  BLIGHT 

to  overhang  the  alleyway.  There's  no  back  yard;  just  a 
narrow  court.  I'm  sure  of  that  much,  from  what  ob 
servations  I've  already  made.  Also,  this  new  snow 
makes  things  good  and  slippery.  I  think,  with  the 
proper  momentum,  a  body  would  land  in  the  allej  all 
right  enough. 

"But  how  to  give  the  momentum?  Ah!  I  have  it! 
By  gad,  it's  some  idea,  what?  As  one  man  feeling  for 
another,  I'm  sorry  for  the  poor  devil.  But  this  is  a 
war  against  war  I'm  carrying  on,  and  it  can't  be  helped. 
Spies  and  informers  caught  inside  my  lines  can't  expect 
any  mercy.  They've  got  to  die !" 

Storm,  his  mind  thoroughly  made  up,  climbed  off  the 
cot  and  went  to  work.  He  turned  on  the  incandescent. 
Then,  keeping  well  out  of  range  of  vision  from  the  sky 
light,  he  began  improvising  his  man-trap.  In  less  than 
five  minutes  he  had  connected  a  long  wire  with  the 
socket  which  he  had  already  used  for  charging  the  ra 
dio  jector.  He  put  the  powerful  induction-coil  of  the 
machine  into  his  prospective  circuit.  Then  turning  out 
the  light  again,  he  set  his  chair  under  the  window  in  the 
roof. 

Standing  on  the  chair,  he  could  just  reach  the  win 
dow.  A  cord  hung  from  this,  passing  over  a  pulley- 
arrangement  to  raise  and  lower  the  pane  for  ventilation. 
Storm  detached  this  cord.  In  its  place  he  fastened  the 
end  of  the  insulated  wire,  scraped  bare,  making  a  rough 
but  good  connection  with  the  metal  catch. 

At  last  everything  was  ready.  The  wire  hanging 
from  the  catch  would,  he  knew,  make  an  excellent  imi 
tation  of  the  cord  which  had  previously  been  there.  He 
felt  certain  the  intruder,  if  he  returned  to  peer  through 


STORM'S  RADIOJECTOR         231 

the  little  peep-hole,  would  not  stand  one  chance  in  a 
thousand  of  ever  detecting  the  substitution. 

As  for  the  other  end  of  the  wire  connecting  with  the 
radio  jector,  that  was  invisible  from  the  roof. 

Storm  descended  and  drew  the  chair  away,  made  a 
light,  and  tested  his  new  circuit.  He  found  it  gave  a 
voltage  of  12,000. 

"Good!"  said  he. 

From  the  bureau,  which  lay  in  the  line  of  sight  of  the 
skylight,  he  took  his  hat  and  traveling-bag. 

"Now  I  make  my  discreet  exit.  Here's  betting  that 
inside  of  half  an  hour  my  unknown  friend  up  there  will 
take  another  peek.  What  does  he  see?  Hat  gone. 
Hand-bag  gone. 

"Ah,  Mr.  Storm  is  out  for  a  few  minutes,  eh?  Time 
enough  to  slip  in  and  jam  an  iron  bar  through  the  vitals 
of  the  machine,  then  hide  for  Storm's  return.  When 
Storm  comes  back,  one  crack  with  a  sandbag  or  a  lead 
pipe — then  a  quick  getaway  over  the  roof.  Cinch! 
All  right,  he's  welcome.  That's  all.  Here's  where  I 
give  him  a  clear  field  for  suicide." 

Leaving  the  light  burning,  he  went  out.  He  locked 
the  door  and  made  his  way  down-stairs. 

"Well,"  he  inquired  of  Angelica,  "anything  left  to 
eat?  I've  changed  my  mind  about  not  having  any  sup 
per,  you  know.  It's  too  good  to  lose.  Any  macaroni 
left?  And  if  so,  can  I  have  some?" 

Angelica  smiled  her  hospitality.  Compliments  of  the 
family  cooking,  direct  or  implied,  pleased  her  mightily. 
The  quick-eyed  stranger  who  had  dined  there  only  an 
hour  before,  who  had  asked  a  question  or  two  about 
the  lodgers,  and  had  then  hired  a  room,  himself,  he,  too, 


232          THE  GOLDEN  BLIGHT 

had  praised  the  macaroni.  Now  Signer  Benton  had 
come  down-stairs  again,  expressly  to  try  a  plate  of  it. 
This  was  flattering. 

Yes,  indeed,  there  was  plenty  left,  con  formaggio, 
signor — ah,  molto  buono,  si!  And  he  could  be  served 
at  once,  if  he  would  only  be  pleased  to  take  a  seat. 

Storm  was  so  pleased.  Also,  he  finished  by  ordering 
everything  on  the  menu. 

"Got  to  give  that  chap  time  enough,  whatever  hap 
pens,"  thought  he,  toying  with  the  Gorgonlike  serpen 
tine  masses  of  the  macaroni.  "He  must  have  all  of 
forty-five  minutes,  if  I  burst !" 

By  dint  of  a  well-simulated  interest  in  Italian  cook 
ery,  Storm  got  access  to  the  kitchen.  This  added  an 
other  quarter  hour  to  the  time  during  which  he  was  out 
of  his  room  and  in  the  presence  of  people. 

Nearly  a  full  hour  had  passed  before  he  once  more 
regained  his  room. 

To  his  huge  satisfaction — though  it  surprised  him 
not  at  all — he  saw  at  a  glance  that  the  metal  catch  of 
the  skylight  had  been  tampered  with.  Not  opened; 
just  merely  moved  a  little. 

Across  the  glass  a  long,  five-fingered  clutch  had 
scraped  the  snow — a  clutch  of  mortal  agony. 

Storm  smiled,  nodded,  reflected  a  moment,  and  then 
smiled  with  honest  satisfaction. 

"Gad!"  remarked  he.  "Electricity  is  rather  handy 
at  a  pinch.  Rather  handy !" 

He  rigged  a  kind  of  curtain  over  the  skylight,  to 
prevent  any  further  observation. 

Then  he  undressed  and  went  to  bed. 


STORM'S  RADIOJECTOR         233 

The  mystery  of  the  well-dressed  man  found  dead  in 
the  alley  back  of  Capotosto's  restaurant  early  next 
morning  offered  no  data  for  solution. 

He  seemed  to  have  been  killed  by  a  long  fall;  but  the 
snow-storm  had  obliterated  any  traces  that  might  have 
led  to  determining  the  spot  whence  he  had  dropped,  or 
the  cause  of  that  accident. 

He  might  have  been  a  burglar,  who  had  fallen  from 
some  roof  or  window,  though  the  excellence  of  his  cloth 
ing  and  his  general  appearance  rather  negatived  this 
diagnosis. 

One  curious  feature  of  the  case  was  that  the  fingers 
of  his  right  hand  were  burned,  as  though  by  a  powerful 
electric  current.  And  yet  no  cables  ran  through  the 
alley. 

The  case,  in  fine,  utterly  stumped  the  police.  In  the 
great  prevailing  excitement  of  the  Blight,  the  matter 
faded  to  oblivion  inside  four-and-twenty  hours. 

There  were  but  four  men  living  who  could  have  ex 
plained  it — the  Triumvirate  and  John  Storm.  The 
Triumvirate  culled  the  news  from  their  papers.  Storm, 
though  he  did  not  view  the  body,  got  all  the  essentials 
from  the  excited  Capotosto  family.  But  he  said  noth 
ing.  The  Capotostos  privately  mourned  the  sud 
den  loss  of  their  new  lodger,  but  kept  close  mouths, 
lest  the  police  put  them  through  dreaded  third  de 
grees. 

Wainwright,  when  he  came  across  the  news  item, 
identified  the  man  with  that  keen  intuition  which  had 
made  him  so  formidable  on  the  Exchange,  and  once 
more  gave  way  to  a  fit  of  passion.  Passion  of  rage 
and  hate,  wherein  but  one  grain  of  consolation  was  to 


234          THE  GOLDEN  BLIGHT 

be  found,  that,  at  all  events,  Storm's  whereabouts  had 
been  approximately  located. 

Murchison,  reading  his  paper  in  the  library,  like 
wise  caught  the  news,  read  it  twice  over,  sensed  its 
import  and  suddenly  felt  very  ill. 

It  turned  the  old  man  sick  and  trembling.  The  pa 
per  rattled  in  his  hand  as  he  sat  there  by  the  fire  which 
no  longer  warmed  him,  trying  to  smoke  a  Mindanao 
whence  all  savor  had  departed. 

"Is  he  man  or  is  he  devil?"  groaned  the  billionaire. 
"I  hire  the  cleverest  sleuths  in  New  York  to  kill  him — 
and  he  comes  up  smiling,  strong  and  insolent.  We 
have  him  trailed,  with  a  view  to  smashing  his  machine — 
and  our  man  is  found  electrocuted  in  a  back  alley ! 

"No  way  to  reach  him  ?  No  redress  ?  No  vengeance  ? 
And  Braunschweig  now  every  moment  nearer  and  nearer 
New  York?  And  the  world  gone  mad? 

"Great  God!  I'm  going  mad,  too — I — the  master 
of  the  world!  Mad!  Mad!  Ah!— that  white  flag- 
must  I  raise  it?  When?  Which  way  shall  I  turn 
now?  What  do?" 

Then  all  at  once  he  sprang  up  and,  with  a  frightful 
imprecation,  shook  his  fist  toward  New  York.  His  old 
and  wrinkled  face  went  white  with  hate  and  rage  and 
passion.  His  teeth  showed,  worn  and  yellowish,  despite 
all  care — like  an  old  dog's  teeth.  His  face  was  trans 
formed  an  instant  to  a  beast's.  In  a  high,  shrill,  hor 
rible  voice,  he  cackled : 

"I'll  get  you  yet!  Damn  you!  I'll  get  you — get 
you  yet!" 


CHAPTER    XXVII 

THE    FINAL    DATS    OF    RESPITE 

TRUE  to  his  carefully  calculated  and  calmly  made  an 
nouncement,  Storm  next  day  ripped  savagely  into  the 
living,  palpitating  heart  of  the  financial  world.  For, 
though  he  had  watched  the  Metropolitan  Tower,  off  and 
on,  all  that  morning — through  a  periscope  in  his  sky 
light — he  had  observed  no  signs  of  capitulation. 

"No  white  flag  yet!"  said  he  grimly  at  11.30,  as  he 
turned  to  make  some  final  adjustments  on  the  radio- 
jector. 

"That  means  war,  for  fair — war  to  a  finish,  on  the 
power  of  gold.  If  they  want  it,  and  mean  to  have  it, 
Gad !  I  can  give  it  to  'em,  all  right  enough ! 

"Will  the  fools  never  learn?  Never — till  it's  too 
late?  Well,  that's  their  lookout.  It's  no  concern  of 
mine.  Here  goes !" 

That  day,  not  only  did  he  transmute  into  worthless 
ash  the  gold  reserve  of  every  private  and  national  bank, 
but  he  also  blighted  the  ultimate  hidden  treasure  in 
every  safe-deposit  vault  of  the  entire  United  States. 

Even  as  mobs  were  rioting  in  front  of  such  places 
all  over  the  country,  trying  to  hire  boxes  at  any  figure, 
for  the  storage  of  coin  and  family  heirlooms,  their 
treasures  turned  to  dust  in  their  hands  and  pocket. 
Numbers  of  men  and  women  went  insane,  in  such  vaults, 

235 


236          THE  GOLDEN  BLIGHT 

as,  in  the  very  act  of  locking  up  their  valuables,  these 
crumbled  beneath  their  touch.  Some  few  suicides  fol 
lowed  hard  upon  the  heels  of  these  maddening  losses. 

And  in  a  far-flung  circle  that  swept  London,  Berlin, 
Paris  and  Rome,  on  the  east,  and  the  whole  American 
continent  on  the  west,  a  circle  that  clipped  the  value 
from  the  bolivars  of  Rio  as  well  as  from  the  kroner  of 
Scandinavia,  a  circle  that  gripped  a  full  third  of  the 
entire  surface  of  the  globe,  Storm  unloosed  the  light 
nings  of  his  vibratory  force. 

Nothing  was  spared,  nothing  save  just  the  national 
gold-hoards.  In  Christiania,  London,  Madrid,  Paris 
and  all  the  capitals  of  the  Old  World  countries  (save 
Greece,  Turkey,  Russia,  Austria  and  the  Balkans), 
stark  panic  reigned  on  the  bourses.  Terrible  scenes, 
reported  thence  by  the  disorganized  cable  service  and 
by  wireless,  found  their  parallels  in  Mexico  City,  all 
over  the  northern  half  of  South  America,  and  through 
out  the  United  States  and  Canada. 

Yet  not  one  national  fund  in  any  country  was 
touched.  The  Blight  spared,  alike,  the  four-hundred- 
ton  hoard  in  the  Wall  Street  Sub-Treasury,  and  the 
stacked-up  canvas  bags,  which — tier  on  tier  like  so 
many  coffee  sacks — held  one  thousand  two  hundred  tons' 
of  yellow  metal,  deep  in  the  subterranean  vaults  be 
neath  the  Treasury  in  Washington. 

All  other  public  funds  were  spared,  as  well.  Storm 
had  no  motive  for  damaging  foreign  governments,  for 
the  benefit  of  his  own.  He  understood  right  well  that 
there  was  but  one  government  in  the  world — the  inter 
national,  standardized  government  of  gold.  And  this 
government,  the  same  under  empires,  monarchies  or 


THE  FINAL  DAYS  OF  RESPITE     237 

republics,  always  and  forever  holding  the  people  in 
subjection  for  the  benefit  of  the  capitalist  class,  he 
was  reserving  as  the  object  of  his  final  assault. 

For  the  present,  only  private  wealth  suffered. 
Though  the  English  government,  panic-stricken,  re 
moved  all  its  wealth,  its  massed  bullion  and  minted 
golden  surplus  from  the  vaults  of  the  Bank  of  England 
—"the  Little  Old  Lady  of  Threadneedle  Street"— to 
hastily  prepared,  lead-foil-lined  oubliettes  in  secret 
raults,  the  precaution  was  unnecessary.  Storm  would 
not  have  smitten  this  reserve.  Not  yet ! 

Intact  remained  the  Danish  national  wealth  in  the 
Rosenborg  Slot  at  Copenhagen;  the  French  funds  in 
the  Banque  de  France,  and  the  Credit  Lyonnais;  the 
Italian  gold  in  the  Banca  Nazionale;  the  Spanish  gold 
in  the  Escurial.  All  other  funds  of  official  govern 
mental  character  likewise  escaped. 

So  accurately  attuned,  so  finely  adjusted  had  the 
radio jector  been,  that  these  incalculable  murder-hoards 
all  were  reserved  for  the  final  act  of  the  world-drama, 
the  last  crushing  broadside  of  his  attack. 

But  even  though  the  national  reserves  still  existed, 
the  private  losses  of  the  capitalist  and  middle  classes 
drove  them  insane. 

Before  the  sudden,  smashing  impact  of  the  Blight,  all 
privately  owned  gold,  inside  the  huge  zone,  faded  and 
blanched,  crumbled,  disappeared. 

Speculators  of  all  kinds  began  running  mad,  in 
myriad  crooked,  intricate  and  unheard-of  forms  of 
gambling.  The  insurance  companies  were  suddenly 
swamped  with  applicants  for  insurance  on  gold. 

A  score  of  strange  reflex  actions  began  to  flare  up. 


238         THE  GOLDEN  BLIGHT 

By  swarms,  prophets  and  fanatics  began  ranting  in 
every  tongue,  all  over  Europe  and  America.  New  sects 
commenced  to  form  with  wonderful  swiftness  ;  and  many 
of  the  old  ones,  principally  the  least  rationalistic,  began 
growing  with  incredible  rapidity.  Huge  camp-meet 
ings  took  spontaneous  form,  in  the  south,  with  monster 
Hiass-baptisms  in  rivers  and  lakes. 

As  at  all  times  of  social  turmoil,  the  churches — 
chronically  dwindling  and  many  of  them  practically 
moribund — began  to  reap  great  harvests.  Fear  now 
as  always  engendered  superstition.  In  many  temples, 
all-day  and  all-night  services  of  prayer  and  supplica 
tion  were  held,  and  enormous  crushes  swarmed  to  gain 
admission.  The  Adventists  and  Millerites  sprang  into 
renewed  activity,  and  many  a  strange,  grotesque  hegira 
to  mountain-tops,  undertaken  by  devotees  in  white 
robes,  bore  witness  to  the  still-persisting  credulity  of 
the  human  race. 

Everywhere,  the  social,  economic  and  financial  effect 
of  the  Blight  was  instant  and  crushing. 

"Gold!  Gold  is  perishing!"  This  cry  had  sufficed 
to  set  the  whole  world  raving  mad. 

As  in  New  York,  so  also  in  London,  incredible  scenes 
resulted. 

So  accurately  adjusted  had  been  the  various  zones  of 
activity  of  the  radio jector,  that  for  the  first  two  days 
of  the  general  attack,  not  the  whole  city  of  London 
was  swept.  The  entire  northeastern  sections  still  es 
caped. 

The  circumference  of  the  circle  of  destruction  shaved 
through  the  Bank  of  England,  just  included  the 
Tower,  and  so  shot  off  in  a  gigantic  southeasterly 


THE  FINAL  DAYS  OF  RESPITE     239 

curve,   through   Southwark,   Camberwell   and  Dulwich. 

Up  to  the  actual  moment  when  the  Blight  struck 
London,  the  Briton  had  pooh-poohed  it. 

"All  very  well  for  America!"  the  verdict  had  been. 
"Most  extraordinary  clever  person  back  of  it  all, 
no  doubt;  but  he  simply  cawn't  touch  us,  you 
know!" 

Had  you  seen  the  white-gilled,  frightened  clerks  and 
dignitaries  swarming  out  of  the  Bank,  their  quill-pens 
still  in  their  hands,  their  papers  and  books  and  balance- 
sheets  still  with  the  sand  upon  them — for,  as  everybody 
knows,  the  great  bank  uses  no  blotters,  but  only  sand, 
in  the  fashion  of  1700 — had  you  observed  the  gasping, 
pale-faced,  stammering  and  distracted  officials  drag 
ging  out  sacks,  empty  save  for  a  little  dirty  gray  dust 
at  the  bottom,  you  would  have  changed  your  mind 
about  English  aplomb. 

Never  had  Zeppelin  raids,  submarine  outrages  or  the 
naval  bombardments  of  undefended  watering-places  so 
agitated  the  British  public  as  now  did  this  devastating 
attack  on  British  gold. 

Not  even  the  Royal  Lancers  and  the  Scots  Guards, 
j  oined  with  practically  the  whole  London  reserve  police, 
could  hold  back  the  terrific  mobs  from  about  the  finan 
cial  district  of  London.  In  the  vicinity  of  the  Tower, 
all  among  those  narrow  and  crooked  streets  along  the 
Thames  as  far  as  Dock  Street  and  Wapping  Basin, 
stark  panic  reigned. 

Singular  scenes  occurred  among  the  stodgy  old 
"beef-eaters"  or  guardians  of  that  venerable  pile 
wherein  the  crown  jewels  and  much  of  the  royal  treas 
ure  had  been  kept  since  time  immemorial. 


240          THE  GOLDEN  BLIGHT 

The  sight  of  the  crown  jewels  melting  away,  fading 
before  their  very  vision,  crumbling  down  in  the  solid 
crystal  cases  and  in  the  steel  safes  of  the  vaults,  was 
beyond  words  terrifying  to  English  eyes. 

It  seemed  as  though  the  heart  and  soul  of  England 
were  rotting,  failing,  perishing.  These,  the  ultimate, 
inmost,  sacred  treasures  of  the  throne  and  of  the  realm 
— which  every  loyal  Englishman  would  have  defended 
with  his  last  drop  of  blood — at  the  first  wasting  breath 
of  the  Blight  simply  ceased  to  be. 

And  all  that  splendor,  all  that  glory  now  was 
brought  to  a  few  confused,  hideous  heaps  of  dust,  sprin 
kled  with  dulled  jewels  and  loose,  unset  gems. 

That  night,  no  man  slept  from  Land's  End  to  John 
o'Groat's  House.  And  over  the  smitten  realm  a  vast, 
inchoate,  monstrous  panic  reigned;  a  crawling,  sicken 
ing  fear — an  anguish  such  as  since  time  was,  England 
had  never  known. 

Russia  flared  into  quick  revolution  as  the  Blight 
smote  her.  Both  Petrograd  and  Moscow,  quickly  laid 
under  martial  law,  became  vast  military  camps ;  but  no 
Cossack  horde,  no  Preobejanski  Guards,  could  stem 
the  torrent.  Against  this  unknown  force  saber  and 
rifle  and  knout  were  impotent.  And  the  nation,  from 
Czar  to  peasant,  reeled  under  the  shock.  From  the 
Neva  to  the  Urals  the  stricken  empire  staggered. 

Paris  was  one  red  seethe  of  delirium.  The  vast  open 
parks  and  spaces  were  crammed  with  surging  mobs. 
The  Tuilleries,  Louvre,  Champ  de  Mars — all  contained 
uncounted  hundreds  of  thousands  clamoring,  yelling, 
fighting,  even  bleeding  in  the  frightful  violence  of  that 
terrorized  struggle  for  news. 


THE  FINAL  DAYS  OF  RESPITE     241 

In  the  Place  de  POpera,  the  mounted  gendarmerie 
had  a  pitched  battle  with  the  mob. 

From  the  top  of  the  Eiffel  Tower  gigantic  bulletins 
were  flung  against  the  fa9ade  of  the  Trocadero,  across 
the  Seine.  And  all  that  night,  millions  watched  while 
bit  by  bit  the  terrible  news  of  the  Blight  was  hurled 
there  by  the  blinding  rays  from  the  tower. 

Berlin  received  the  blow  more  stolidly,  full  in  the 
face ;  she  staggered,  reeled,  but  kept  her  feet.  Though 
huge  mobs  swarmed  up  and  down  Unter  den  Linden  and 
throughout  the  city,  yet  the  national  depression  caused 
by  the  disastrous  outcome  of  the  Pan-European  war, 
as  well  as  the  scarcity  of  gold  in  Germany,  due  to  that 
Hohenzollern  fiasco,  made  for  better  order. 

Pale-faced,  spectacled  German  scientists  made  con 
tinuous  tests  on  such  funds  as  still  remained,  working 
like  huge  rats  in  the  dim,  groined  recesses  of  the  vaults. 

Everywhere  throughout  the  stricken  area  in  Europe, 
savants  were  doing  the  same.  For  even  though  the 
Great  War  had  profoundly  shaken  the  capitalist  sys 
tem,  gold  still  remained  the  basis  of  civilization. 

Not  yet  had  come  any  understanding  of  the  great 
change  that  impended  over  the  world.  Still  one  dom 
inant  idea  persisted — the  hope  of  gain,  from  the  calam 
ity;  the  burning  eagerness  to  save  something,  at  least, 
from  the  seeming  wreck.  To  get  rid  of  gold,  men 
bought  everything,  anything — land,  houses,  silver,  dia 
monds,  even  infinitudes  of  trivial,  useless,  foolish  trifles. 
But,  as  the  fear  of  the  Blight  increased,  the  value  of 
gold  fell,  until  its  purchasing  power  fell  to  almost  zero. 

Fell?  Dropped,  rather;  plumbed  down  at  one  sheer 
swoop.  In  two  days  after  the  Blight  struck  Europe, 


242          THE  GOLDEN  BLIGHT 

the  price  of  gold  shrank  in  London  from  £4  4s 
per  ounce,  to  less  than  £1  10s.    . 

Tremendous  speculations  in  gold  began  all  over  the 
world.  A  three-day  period  of  immunity,  granted  by 
Storm,  had  now  set  in.  During  this  time  confidence 
revived  again,  and  vast  movements  of  gold  began  to 
develop.  Banking-houses,  exchanges  and  bourses  re 
mained  open  day  and  night.  The  streets  of  the  capi 
tals  in  both  worlds  seethed  at  midnight  as  at  midday. 
In  the  midst  of  cataclysmic  business  failures  and  a 
perfect  debacle  of  ruin  and  suicide,  other  businesses  of 
a  speculative  nature  burst  out,  leaped  to  gigantic  pro 
portions  almost  in  an  hour  and  for  a  space  swam  on 
the  turgid,  rushing  tides  of  world-disaster. 

Spontaneous  markets  established  themselves. 
"Curbs"  were  formed  and  dissolved  as  by  magic.  Gold 
changed  hands— what  little  private  gold  was  left— at 
irrational  figures. 

Began,  also,  the  first  premonitory  symptoms  of  the 
trading  in  gold-ash,  which  as  you  shall  see,  later  played 
so  tremendous  a  part  in  the  whole  drama. 

News  of  astonishing  incidents  filtered  in  from  strange 
sources.  Had  there  been  writers  in  any  frame  of  mind 
to  record  these  events  or  dramatize  them,  wondrous 
books  and  plays  could  have  beer  built  around  even  the 
smallest  of  these  amazing  events.  Some  of  the  most 
surprising  developments  took  place  where  East  and 
West  meet,  where  the  twentieth  century  grazes  the 
fifteenth,  in  North  Africa,  in  Algeria  and  Tunis. 

From  the  French  colonies  along  the  southern  shores 
of  the  Mediterranean,  and  from  the  Sahara,  weird  tales 
drifted  into  Europe.  The  Arabs,  Berbers  and  Algeri- 


THE  FINAL  DAYS  OF  RESPITE     243 

ans,  when  their  gold  melted  like  the  fabled  snow  tlic^ 
had  long  heard  of  but  never  seen — when  all  this  van 
ished,  especially  the  age-long-hoarded  and  infinitely 
precious  golden  ornaments,  nose-rings,  anklets  and  coin- 
necklaces  of  their  women  (especially  of  the  Ouled-Nails, 
whose  dowries  hung  about  their  necks),  these  strange 
brown  people  screamed  in  vain  to  Allah  II  Allah,  for 
vengeance  on  the  Frank,  the  infidel  dog  whose  magic 
had  wrought  not  only  this  outrage,  but  had  committed 
the  terrible  sacrilege  of  stripping  all  the  golden  domes 
and  inscriptions  of  the  Ineffable  Name  from  a  thousand 
mosques. 

And  a  Jehad,  a  holy  war  of  consuming,  flamelike  sav 
agery  leaped  instantly  from  Alexandria  to  Tangier; 
the  green  banner  of  the  Prophet  flung  itself  snapping 
broadly  to  the  sirocco ! 

Swarming  like  locusts  from  the  desert,  the  hill-men, 
the  desert-men,  the  men  of  the  oases  and  the  hinterland 
all  met.  From  Biskra  and  the  Desert  of  Igidi  they 
came,  from  Hammada-el-Homra  and  far  Abu-Gossi, 
beyond  the  Oasis  of  Selimah;  and  before  any  of  the 
European  powers  could  even  mobilize  relief  columns,  in 
all  of  northern  Africa,  outside  of  the  walled  towns,  not 
one  white  face  remained. 

The  famed  Foreign  Legion  of  daredevils  of  all  nation 
alities  singularly  enough  put  up  no  fight  at  all. 

Scared  bloodless  by  the  Blight,  soaked  in  supersti 
tion,  these  wastrels,  whose  only  thought  was  loot,  gain, 
gold,  now  suddenly  found  in  their  lonely  desert  camps 
and  among  their  camel-trains  that  all  their  wealth  was 
dross. 

The  beakers  and  chalices,  the  rings  and  jewels,  the 


244         THE  GOLDEN  BLIGHT 

golden  images  and  gauds  looted  from  innumerable  raids, 
swiftly  crumbled  to  dust. 

Even  the  gold  braid  and  buttons,  the  gold  sword- 
hilts,  the  show  and  panoply  of  power — all,  all  dropped 
away  and  vanished  like  a  dream. 

And,  fast  as  camels'  padded  hoofs  could  carry  them, 
fast  as  their  stallions  or  their  own  fright-weakened  legs 
could  travel,  they  fled  before  the  rising  swarms  of 
brown-skinned  Mohammedan  tribesmen. 

Fled  with  parched  tongues  and  bent  backs,  sweating 
beneath  their  cache-nuques,  over  the  mirage-beckoning, 
sandstorm-swept  deserts. 

Nameless  battles,  routs  and  massacres  by  the  Ber 
bers  and  fierce  hill-men  freed  the  world  of  uncounted 
numbers  of  these  unhanged  thugs  and  chevaliers  d'in- 
dustrie.  But  many  thousands,  spent  and  sun-baked, 
won  through  to  the  coast  towns,  to  the  reassurances  of 
the  plaza,  the  galvanized  iron  table,  the  green-eyed 
milky  curse  of  the  snow-cooled  absinthe  in  the  tall  glass. 
And  there,  dazed  and  uncomprehending,  they  told  wild 
tales,  the  least  of  which  would  have  furnished  forth  a 
fiction-writer  with  material  for  great  gain. 

Thus  the  white  invader  of  the  Prophet's  lands  fled 
the  Blight  and  the  pursuing  hordes  of  the  Faithful. 
Thus  retreated  those  who,  with  the  power  of  Gold  be 
hind  them,  gladly  would  have  faced  the  Mahdi,  had  he 
possessed  a  hundred  times  as  many  tribesmen.  And 
desert  Africa  for  a  time,  throughout  its  whole  northern 
reaches,  once  more  swept  clean  of  the  invader,  the 
infidel  dog,  became  all  brown,  all  black. 


CHAPTER    XXVIII 

NIGHT    IN    THE    STRICKEN    CITY 

THAT  history  never  will  be  written  in  its  entirety. 
From  stricken  bank  to  suspended  industry ;  from  hoard 
ing  miser  to  cowering  plutocrat,  hiding — like  the  Tri 
umvirate  now — in  close-guarded  estates,  away  from  the 
frenzied  mobs  of  starving  men  and  women  that  had  be 
gun  to  roam  and  wreck ;  from  rich  to  poor,  from  high 
to  low,  all  grades  and  strata  fell  apart  in  prostrate 
impotence  and  panic. 

Laws  failed  to  operate.  Courts  and  judges  fell, 
crashing,  from  their  pedestals  of  power.  Police  and 
militia  broke  like  reeds,  before  this  tempest.  Even  the 
armies  of  the  world,  hastily  called  upon  for  service,  to 
shoot  and  bayonet  the  people  into  dumb  submission 
once  again,  now  snarled  with  bared  teeth  at  their  former 
masters. 

Mutiny  reigned.  The  leaven  of  new  intelligence  was 
at  work.  Forever  past  was  the  day  of  blind,  unthink 
ing  obedience  to  the  masters'  will.  Already  the  men 
in  blue,  the  men  in  khaki,  had  begun  to  use  their  brains ; 
and  the  supposedly  impregnable  mass  of  trained  butch 
ers  had  now  got  wholly  out  of  hand.  Plutocracy  re 
alized,  too  late,  that  the  watch-dog  might  at  any  mo 
ment  turn  on  them  and  rend  their  throats,  instead  of 
throttling  the  dumb,  driven  cattle  of  the  proletaire. 

245 


246          THE  GOLDEN  BLIGHT 

And  white-faced  fear  reigned  at  Washington,  in  Wall 
Street,  at  Edgecliff  and  in  every  chancellory,  every 
throne-room,  every  plutocratic  stronghold  in  the  whole 
World  of  Gold. 

The  golden  binding-cords,  once  loosened,  showed  what 
the  true  component  elements  of  society  really  were. 
Now  men  and  women,  for  the  most  part,  revealed  them 
selves  as  mere  puppets,  bound  with  golden  wires,  moved 
by  golden  strings.  In  the  whirling  jinnee-breath  of  the 
hell-storm  that  scorched  the  world,  only  the  Social  Rev 
olutionists  remained  calm. 

They  only,  understanding  the  true  philosophy  of 
values,  the  real  worthlessness  of  gold,  labored  like 
Titans,  through  their  press,  with  innumerable  meetings 
and  with  hosts  of  "soap-boxers,"  to  spread  oil  on  these 
stormy  waters.  Yet,  though  thousands  listened  and 
were  made  wise,  the  vast  majority  of  mankind  heeded 
not ;  and  even  though  these  social  prophets  "spake  with 
tongues  of  wisdom's  eternal  flame,"  yet  chaos  swept 
the  world. 

Chaos,  in  which  the  dreaded  "Iron  Heel"  of  militar 
ism  itself  was  swept  away  like  chaff.  Chaos,  insensate 
and  incomprehensible.  Chaos,  hurling  the  mad  world 
whither  ? 

John  Storm,  throughout  it  all — calm,  collected,  ac 
curate  in  his  daily  scourgings  of  the  earth,  his  pitiless 
and  relentless  destruction  of  gold  in  ever-widening 
areas — meanwhile  continued  to  watch  through  his  peri 
scope  for  some  signal  of  capitulation,  some  flicker  of 
the  huge  white  flag  on  top  of  the  Metropolitan  Tower 
— the  tower  whose  golden  pinnacle  now  was  dull  as  lead. 
And  day  followed  day,  yet  still  no  banner  flung  itself 


NIGHT  IN  THE  STRICKEN  CITY  247 

abroad  upon  the  winds  of  heaven,  hundreds  of  feet 
above  the  tortured  city. 

"Ha !"  smiled  he,  bitterly,  to  himself.  "So,  then,  still 
stiff-necked?  The  idiots  in  their  insensate  blindness 
must  have  their  final  lesson.  And  Ridpath,  the  his 
torian,  was  right  when  he  said:  'The  iron  teeth  of 
monopoly,  once  fastened  on  the  marrow-bone  of  privi 
lege,  never  relax  until  the  jaw  itself  is  broken.' 

"Broken?  Wait!  I'm  ready  for  that  job,  too,  if 
they  are!" 

Thus  came  the  final  days. 

John  Storm  mingled  once  more  with  the  howling, 
roaring,  mafficking  mobs  that  now  for  a  considerable 
time — mocking  both  police  and  military  which  dared 
not  shoot  them  down — had  held  possession  of  Broadway 
and  all  the  city's  vital  arteries,  as  well  as  the  financial 
district. 

Storm  was  amazed  and  horrified  by  the  tremendous 
forces  he  had  let  loose — like  the  Arabian  Nights  fisher 
man  who  liberated  the  spirit  from  the  brass  bottle; — • 
astounded,  yet  filled  with  a  vast,  soul-enkindling  pride. 

"All  for  good,"  said  he.  "All  working  for  ultimate 
good,  as  atoms  work  in  a  reaction;  though  they  don't 
know  it,  these  men  and  women,  any  more  than  the  atoms 
do.  But  the  result — that  comes !" 

The  whole  aspect  of  the  city  was  entirely  changed. 
Little  or  no  vehicular  traffic  was  to  be  seen.  Much  of 
the  tramway  service  and  of  the  "L"  and  subway  system 
was  paralyzed.  Shops  were  boarded  up;  special 
guards,  heavily  armed,  swarmed  everywhere;  business 
was  at  a  standstill,  save  along  speculative  lines,  where 
it  flared  and  blazed  in  thousands  of  fantastic  shapes. 


248         THE  GOLDEN  BLIGHT 

In  the  cosmic  discord  every  relation  of  life  seemed 
awry,  inverted,  unreal.  The  stupid,  unthinking,  slav 
ish  world,  suddenly  deprived  of  its  age-long  fetish,  gold, 
was  drifting  rapidly  toward  Bedlam. 

The  wolf-instinct  of  mankind  for  a  time  seemed  get 
ting  the  upper  hand.  Atavism  leaped  up.  Every  in 
dividual  now  grabbed,  fought,  struck  for  his  own,  tore 
away  what  he  could  grasp,  and  showed  his  teeth  to 
defend  his  booty.  "I  must  get  mine!  Mine!"  the 
world's  thought  had  become.  Altruism  perished.  Self 
dominated. 

Organized  society  became  a  stampeded  pack  of  ani 
mals,  fighting,  rending,  tearing,  bleeding — and  under 
standing  nothing  of  what  was  really  taking  place. 

Strange  the  ways  in  which  the  Blight  struck  home. 
Multifarious  the  bits  of  its  incredible  action,  which 
Storm  picked  up  as  he  mingled  with  the  people  of  the 
distracted  metropolis. 

Here  he  caught  a  word :  "But,  oh !  When  I  went  to 
look  at  the  chain  my  mother  gave  me — !" 

Again:  "That  was  my  lucky  piece,  old  man.  Had 
that  five-dollar  gold  piece  since  '48.  Never  even  let  it 
go  out  o'  my  pocket.  Well — " 

Storm  heard  a  haggard  cabman  hoarsely  telling  a 
mate: 

"Thirteen  years'  savin's,  that's  wot.  In  gold!  All 
in  gold!  Ye  see,  I  wasn't  goin'  to  take  no  chances. 
No  paper,  fer  mine,  no,  nor  silver.  Just  gold!  But 
when  this  here  strikes,  an'  I  goes  to  git  my  stuff — 
Gawd!" 

On  the  corner  of  Thirty-third  Street  and  Broadway 
he  overheard  this  bit: 


NIGHT  IN  THE  STRICKEN  CITY  249 

"Ain't  no  use  tryin'  to  save  it  by  hidin'  it,  Bill. 
That's  straight!  Now  here  was  our  union  funds,  I'm 
tellin'  you.  And — " 

Still  another:  "The  worst  of  it  was,  Mac,  I'd  just 
had  that  big  gold  sign  put  up  the  very  day  before 
this  struck.  So  I'm  out — " 

Storm  grimaced. 

"Gad !"  thought  he.  "It's  a  rotten  shame,  all  right, 
to  have  had  to  do  this  to  all  these  innocent  people — 
just  to  get  the  skunks !  But  war  is  war — it's  Hell ! 
And  here's  one  case  where  the  innocent  have  got  to 
suffer  with  the  guilty — for  a  time,  just  for  a  little  time, 
till  everything's  made  'better  than  well.' ' 

He  pushed  his  way  along  Thirty-fourth,  to  the  Wal 
dorf.  Here  he  entered,  minded  to  investigate  some 
thing  of  the  psychology  of  the  master-class. 

The  hotel  offices  and  corridors  were  packed  with 
a  shouting,  gesticulating  mob.  Not  the  great  finan 
ciers  here,  but  the  lesser  lights  of  the  golden  reign — 
the  brokers,  smaller  bankers,  speculators  and  Wall 
Street  men  somewhat  below  the  apex  of  the  golden 
pyramid. 

Storm  watched  a  while,  wandered  about,  pushed 
through  the  crowds  of  well-dressed,  excited,  frightened 
men  and  women,  peered  into  the  dining-halls  where 
though  the  heavens  fell,  wine  would  still  flow,  and  at  last 
came  back  to  sit  down  in  the  long,  main,  brilliantly 
lighted  corridor. 

The  man  in  the  chair  next  his  own  attracted 
Storm's  attention. 

Haggard,  ashen-gray,  he  was  horrible  to  look  upon. 
His  clothes,  of  elegant  cut  and  fine  material,  were 


250         THE  GOLDEN  BLIGHT 

wrinkled  and  covered  with  dust.     His  eyes  were  those 
of  a  suicide. 

Storm  spoke  to  him. 

"Hard  hit,  stranger?" 

The  man  groaned,  then  suddenly  burst  into  tears. 

"Wiped  out !"  he  stammered. 

"All  gone?" 

"Last  night  I  had  one  hundred  and  fifty  thousand 
dollars  in  gold  in  the  strongest  safe-deposit  vault  in 
Brooklyn,"  he  stammered.  "To-night,  d'you  know 
what  I've  got?  Sixteen  and  a  half  pounds  of  ashes! 
Oh,  merciful  God!" 

Up  he  sprang.  He  staggered  blindly  through  the 
crowd.  He  vanished.  Storm  shook  his  head. 

"If  he'd  spent  that  intelligently,  now!"  thought  he. 
"Land,  houses,  broad  fields,  woods,  anything!  But 
no — they  worship  gold,  gold,  gold!  And,  by  the 
Almighty,  they  must  feel  the  lash,  for  their  idolatry !" 

He  arose,  too,  and,  as  though  he  were  a  stranger  in 
the  city,  stared  about  him. 

An  agitated  hotel  employee  was  struggling  to  get 
through  the  press. 

Storm  helped  make  a  way  for  him.  As  the  man 
came  through,  Storm  got  him  by  the  arm,  and  asked: 

"What's  up?  What's  wrong  here?  I'm  just  in 
from  Rio.  Tell  me  about  this !" 

"Let  go,  you!"  retorted  the  employee. 

"Not  till  you  tell  me !" 

The  man  stared  at  Storm.  Then  he  began  to 
laugh,  bitterly. 

"Huh?"  he  fired  at  Storm.     "You  don't  know?" 

"Know  what?     Everybody's  crazy,  here,  or  how?' 


MIGHT  IN  THE  STRICKEN  CITY  251 

"Say !  Ha !  ha !  Here's  something  big — a  man  that 
don't  know  what's  doin'!  Here,  you  come  with  me. 
I'm  on  my  way,  now.  I'll  show  you !" 

They  went  up  in  the  elevator,  which  was  packed  full, 
to  the  ninth  floor. 

"Know  th'  gold  room?" 

Storm  shook  his  head. 

"I'm  a  stranger,  I  tell  you.  Coffee-planter,  from 
just  outside  Rio.  What's  up?  The  whole  town  gone 
insane?" 

"And  you  ain't  read  the  papers  ?  Ain't  heard,  on  the 
trip?" 

"Seasick,  all  the  way.  Just  docked;  took  a  taxi  up 
here.  City  looks  like  it  had  been  through  a  revolution. 
What's  the  matter?  Everybody  in  New  York  gone 
crazy?" 

The  man  flung  open  a  door. 

"Look!"  cried  he.  "That's  what  I've  got  to  see 
about  cleanin'  up — this  here  gold  room !" 

Storm  peered  in. 

"Gold  room?     I  don't  see  any  gold." 

"No,  not  now.  Y'oughta  seen  it,  though,  before  the 
Blight  struck.  Now  look  at  it!" 

"It's  certainly  a  mess,"  said  Storm.  "All  lead-col 
ored — and  the  carpet,  all  ashes !" 

"Ashes !  You're  damned  right,  mister.  Some  ash«s, 
believe  me !  The  Blight  done  that." 

Still  Storm  shook  his  head. 

"I  don't  understand,"  said  he,  slowly,  "What's  it 
all  about?  Blight?  What  Blight?" 

But  the  employee,  with  a  sudden  savage  oath,  turned 
on  him  with  upraised  fist. 


252          THE  GOLDEN  BLIGHT 

"Aw!  Get  t'  Hell  out  o'  here!"  he  cried  with  pas 
sion.  "You're  bugs!  Beat  it,  you,  or  I'll  have  you 
pulled.  Don't  know  about  the  Blight,  huh?  Nutty! 
Plumb  nutty !  Go  on,  now,  go  on !  Skate !" 

Storm,  still  pretending  mystification,  withdrew. 

Five  minutes  later  he  was  listening  to  a  hot,  many- 
voiced  argument  in  the  lobby.  But  he  refrained  from 
getting  involved. 

To  a  man  at  his  elbow,  however,  he  remarked: 

"I'm  wiped  out  by  this.     You?" 

"Never  touched  me,"  chuckled  the  other.  "First 
crack  out  o'  the  box,  bought  silver !  Oh,  a  cinch ! 
That  was  before  the  news  struck  Galveston.  Regular 
wires  down  with  a  storm.  But  I  had  a  tip  by  private 
wire.  Quick  work!  Not  too  bad,  eh?  Good  thing  to 
have  a  live  broker  in  little  old  New  York,  to  put  you 
wise !" 

Storm  drifted  out  into  the  street  again.  He  walked 
a  couple  of  blocks  down  Fifth  Avenue,  then  turned 
west  and  once  more  struck  into  the  aorta  of  New  York 
— Broadway — pondering  on  the  intellectual  chaos  of 
the  self-boasting  "masters  of  society,"  the  propertied 
class,  as  mirrored  in  the  wild,  inconclusive,  anarchistic 
scenes  and  arguments  he  had  just  heard  and  witnessed. 

Under  the  red  "flaming  arcs" — for  still  the  city,  even 
in  its  seeming  dissolution,  kept  its  myriad  galaxies  of 
lights  blazing,  its  sky-signs  gleaming,  darting,  spark 
ling  vividly  in  the  winter  night,  the  night  of  approach 
ing  Christmas  —  life  swarmed  with  inconceivable 
abandon. 

Beggar  and  drunken  spendthrift  rake  jostled  each 
other;  wan,  out-of-work  and  hard-eyed  painted  women 


NIGHT  IN  THE  STRICKEN  CITY  253 

elbowed  each  other;  dope-fiends — of  whom  the  number 
had  now  largely  increased — shuffled  along  with  those 
crazed  by  their  losses ;  the  idle,  the  ruined,  the  curious, 
the  crafty-scheming — all  drove  on  and  on  together, 
through  the  whirl  of  speculation,  wild  disorder  and  un 
bridled  license. 

And  blood  flowed,  too ;  and  tumult  reigned  London, 
with  its  most  ferocious  hooligan  forays,  was  calm  bj 
contrast  with  New  York  during  these  last  nights  of 
the  Blight. 

Storm  stopped  for  a  few  minutes  at  the  corner  of 
Broadway  and  Thirty-First  Street,  to  harken  to  one 
of  the  innumerable  street-preachers — a  black  man, 
sweating  with  fear  and  zeal — hurling  denunciations  at 
the  gibing  horde  as  he  stood  there  on  an  upturned 
barrel. 

One  hand  grasped  a  lamp-post.  The  other  vibrated 
eerily  in  the  electric-lighted  night.  And  the  white 
teeth  gleamed,  the  eyeballs  rolled  as  ecstatic  frenzy 
seized  the  howling  fanatic. 

Through  the  tumult,  Storm  caught  a  phrase  or  two : 

"An'  de  Beast  was  wid  seven  horns — wheels  within 
wheels — de  days  ob  Armageddon,  my  breddren — flee  de 
Y/rath  to  come !  Oh,  sinners,  for  de  Son  ob  Man  com- 
eth— !" 

All  at  once,  the  black  man  vanished. 

A  louder  roar  burst  upward,  echoing  against  the 
barricaded  shops  and  through  the  shattered  windows. 
Somebody  had  kicked  in  the  barrel-staves.  The 
preacher  was  down.  Over  him  the  mob  passed,  over 
anu  on,  as  Murchison  had  seen  it  pass,  the  first  day 
of  the  Blight,  over  another  man  in  Wall  Street. 


254         THE  GOLDEN  BLIGHT 

Storm  shuddered,  and  buried  his  face  still  deeper  in 
his  upturned  collar. 

"Gad!"  thought  he,  as  he  drifted  onward  with  the 
tumult,  toward  the  flaring,  fighting,  roaring  bulletin- 
board  area  of  Herald  Square.  "If  it  were  known  that 
I,  John  Storm,  had  started  all  this;  and  if  the  wolf- 
pack  here  should  recognize  me — what  then?" 

A  vision  of  his  body,  jerked  and  shredded  into  tiny, 
red-dripping  strings  and  fragments,  bits  of  quivering 
rawness  tossed  on  high  along  the  bellowing  flood-tide 
of  the  street,  flashed  before  his  eyes. 

He  put  the  vision  away  with  a  grim  set  of  the  jaw. 

"Soon,  now!"  he  whispered  to  himself;  and  in  his 
ulster-pockets  his  hard  fists  gripped  like  iron — the  fists 
that  now  held  the  whole  world  and  squeezed  and 
wrought  it  as  a  potter  works  the  clay  upon  his  wheel. 

"Soon,  now,  the  final  blow!     And  then—?" 

At  the  same  hour,  Graf  Maximilian  Braunschweig's 
powerful  yacht,  the  Sieger,  was  cutting  across  the 
Grand  Banks,  splitting  the  fog  and  brine  in  the  last 
lap  of  its  swift,  untiring  trajectory  to  New  York. 

On  her  gale-swept  foredeck  stood  the  massive,  long- 
bearded  figure  of  the  Jewish  financier.  Though  night 
and  mist  enshrouded  the  Atlantic,  still  his  eyes  were 
turned  toward  America. 

High  up  the  mast  against  which  he  leaned,  the  faint, 
incessant,  crepitant  sparkle  of  the  wireless  bespoke 
the  messages  hurled  out  ahead  of  him. 

Thus  Braunschweig  drew  near  his  prey. 

To-morrow — what  then? 

To-morrow! 


CHAPTER  XXIX 

THE    COMING    OF    BRAUNSCHWEIG 

AT  half  past  ten  of  the  culminant  day,  a  notable 
meeting  took  place  in  the  inner  private  office  of  Hudson 
D.  Campbell,  director  of  the  Wall  Street  Sub-Treasury. 

Secretly  arranged  at  the  instance  of  Murchison — 
who,  now  that  the  final  blow  was  about  to  be  struck, 
had  once  more  emerged  into  activity — it  comprised  a 
dozen  of  the  financial  and  governmental  supermen. 

Wainwright  was  there,  and  Baker,  and — of  course — 
the  lean,  gray,  nervous  figure  of  Murchison  himself. 
There  was  Campbell,  with  Stanley  M.  Whitney,  secre 
tary  of  the  United  States  Treasury;  and  there,  too, 
were  other  men,  for  the  most  part  tight-lipped  and 
hard-browed — men  known  and  feared  and  cringed  to 
from  world's  end  to  world's  end. 

Yet  silence  held  them  as  the  director's  bronze  clock 
ticked  on  the  mahogany  desk;  silence,  save  for  a  mut 
tered  word,  a  cough,  a  sorry  mockery  of  a  smile. 
Silence,  till  Campbell,  leaning  a  little  forward,  struck 
the  desk-top  a  single  sharp  blow  with  his  ruler. 

"Gentlemen!"  said  he. 

All  looked  at  him,  dour  and  ugly  and  harassed.  No 
body  answered.  Nobody  thought  of  tobacco.  When 
men  meet  to  talk  and  do  not  think  of  smoking — watch 
them! 

255 


256          THE  GOLDEN  BLIGHT 

"Gentlemen,"  repeated  Campbell,  his  voice  dry  and 
rasping,  his  gray  eyes  shifting  nervously  from  face  to 
face,  "we  all  know  why  we  are  here.  We  all  grant  that 
the  case,  so  far,  is  proved.  Futhermore,  I  think  we 
all  agree  that  a  real  danger  may  possibly  threaten  the 
national  treasure  to-day.  I  do  not  say  it  does  so 
threaten ;  I  merely  intimate  that  it  may.  But  even  the 
possibility  is  worth  our  most  serious  attention.  I  now 
declare  this  meeting  open  for  a  free  discussion  of  the 
issue." 

He  ceased.  Murchison,  glancing  keenly  about,  said 
with  emphasis: 

"Everybody  knows  everybody  here.  I  reckon  any 
thing  that's  said  in  this  room,  goes  no  further.  It  had 
better  not,  that's  all!  But  before  we  begin  I  want  to 
say  just  this:  We  men  here  can  handle  this  situation. 
There's  enough  of  us  as  it  is.  All  right.  Nobody  else 
must  come  in  at  that  door.  I  want  at  least  one  hour 
for  uninterrupted  discussion.  One  hour! 

"At  11 :45,  as  I  understand  the  situation,  the  threat 
made  against  the  Sub-Treasury  deposit  here  may  pos 
sibly  take  effect.  If  we  decide  to  quit  by  11 :30,  we 
shall  have  time  enough  to  'phone  up  to  the  Metropolitan 
and  have  the  flag  hoisted.  You  all  understand  the 
terms,  I  know. 

"The  point  at  issue  is  just  this — does  the  flag  go  up 
or  does  it  not?  Do  we  yield  to  that — "  and  he  jerked 
his  thumb  eloquently  at  an  old  steel-engraving  of  "The 
Baltimore  Riot"  that  hung  over  the  director's  desk — 
"do  we  give  in  to  the  mob,  and  to  one  single,  vicious, 
hidden  anarchist;  or  do  we  stand  for  individualism, 
freedom,  and  untrammeled  Americanism? 


COMING  OF  BRAUNSCHWEIG      257 

"That,  gentlemen,  is  the  question  now  up  to  us !" 

He  leaned  back  in  his  chair  and,  tapping  the  arm 
nervously  as  was  his  habit,  waited  an  answer. 

The  answer  was  not  long  in  coming;  and,  after  it, 
another  and  another. 

Fifteen  minutes  had  not  passed  before  the  inviolable 
quietude  of  the  director's  office  was  shattered  by  loud 
and  angry  words,  by  threats,  accusations  and  counter 
charges,  by  personalities  and  the  lie  direct. 

All  parliamentary  convention  thrown  aside,  two, 
three,  five  men  were  on  their  feet  ai>  once,  shouting  and 
gesticulating.  Campbell's  pounding  with  the  ruler  had 
about  as  much  effect,  now,  as  a  single  drop  of  oil  on 
the  whole  North  Atlantic.  These  men,  cooped  there 
together  like  wolves  in  a  diminishing  circle  of  flame, 
snarled  at  each  other  with  bared  fangs,  each  fighting 
for  what  each  thought  his  own  personal  advantage. 

One  shouted  advice  to  cede,  to  hoist  the  flag  while 
there  might  still  be  time,  and  thus  rake  from  the  fire 
of  destruction  the  remaining  chestnuts. 

Another  advocated  subterfuge  and  trickery,  a  false 
truce,  with  some  chance  of  laying  hands  on  John 
Storm's  person  and  dealing  summarily  with  him. 

"Sweep  New  York  with  fire!"  vociferated  a  third. 
"That  will  clean  out  his  infernal  apparatus,  anyhow 
— it's  bound  to!  Better  lose  one  city  than  the  whole 
world!" 

Through  all,  over  all,  bellowed  Wainwright's  dom 
inant  threat: 

"Gold  or  no  gold,  we're  masters!  We  hold  the  jobs 
— if  we  say  so,  the  world  starves!  Let  'em  starve  or 
submit,  whatever  happens !" 


258         THE  GOLDEN  BLIGHT 

Just  how  the  stranger  entered,  or  at  what  precise 
moment  he  arrived,  they  could  not  tell. 

His  presence  became  known  among  them,  that  was 
all.  Suddenly,  there  he  stood  at  the  far  end  of  the 
room,  a  strange,  tremendous  figure  of  a  man. 

Tall,  robust,  huge-chested;  with  a  rabbinical  beard 
of  gray;  with  level-sighted  eyes  and  a  great  spatulate- 
fingered  hand  that  he  raised  as  though  demanding 
silence,  he  remained  motionless  just  inside  the  doorway. 

He  spoke  no  word,  but  merely  looked — and  waited. 

Silence  fell. 

But  the  calm  lasted  hardly  a  moment. 

Then  Murchison,  white  with  passion,  leaped  up. 

"Sir!"  cried  he. 

Wainwright  cursed  and  stared.  The  others  turned 
angry  faces  at  the  interloper. 

The  stranger  bowed.  He  smiled,  and  with  an  in 
definably  suave  gesture  that  seemed  to  epitomize  ages 
of  European  culture,  indicated  that  he  waited  their 
pleasure. 

"Who  is  this  man?"  shouted  Murchison,  hardly  con 
taining  himself  with  the  most  tremendous  effort.  "I 
gave  orders,  positive  orders,  that  nobody  should  be 
admitted  to  this  room! 

"Nobody!  Hear  me?  Nobody!  Not  even  the 
President  of  the  United  States !  And  here — " 

"Yes,  here  I  am,  an  interloper,  I  admit,"  broke  in 
the  stranger  with  perfect  fluency,  though  a  slight 
accent.  "An  intruder,  you  call  it?  But  you  should 
make  me  welcome!  I  come  not  to  bring  a  sword,  but 
peace.  I — " 

"Who  the  Hell  are  you,  anyhow,  to  offer  anything?" 


COMING  OF  BRAUNSCHWEIG      259 

burst  out  Wainwright,  clenching  both  fists.  "And 
how—" 

"Did  I  get  in  past  the  watchmen?  Ah,  it  is  easy 
to  do  so  with  a  few  paltry  handfuls  of  coins.  But  I 
do  not  wonder  at  your  surprise,  gentlemen.  I  do  not 
blame  you  that  you  fail  to  recognize  me.  Publicity  I 
never  allow.  My  picture  is  not  printed  in  the  reviews 
or  papers.  No.  Yet,  never  mind;  I  can  save  you 
none  the  less.  For — " 

"Who  are  you?"  roared  the  billionaire,  smiting  the 
secretary's  desk  so  hard  that  ink  spattered  from  the 
bronze  well.  "Your  name,  or  by  Heaven,  out  that 
door  you  go!" 

"I  can  still  save  you,  gentlemen,  for  my  name  is 
Maximilian  Braunschweig.  Gentlemen,  at  your 
service !" 


CHAPTER  XXX 

THE    GEE  AT    JEW'S    OFFEE 

AGAIN  he  bowed  his  head,  with  his  broad  hand  laid 
on  his  breast.  Then,  lifting  his  eyes  once  more,  he 
fixed  a  satirical,  untroubled  gaze  on  that  startled 
assembly,  that  "gold-lust  syndicate  of  dollar-mark 
statesmen." 

Murchison  turned  livid. 

"Your—  "  stammered  he. 

At  Braunschweig  he  stared  with  eyes  of  hate  and 
terror. 

"You?" 

For  years,  for  many  troubled  years,  he  had  felt  the 
pressure  of  this  impersonal,  invisible  force,  half- 
mythically  summed  in  the  name  "Braunschweig."  For 
years  he  had  rebelled  against  this  looming,  ever-grow 
ing,  always-mounting  European  power ;  this  intangible, 
self-obliterating  menace. 

For  decades  he  had,  with  increasing  frequency,  been 
forced  to  recognize  the  presence  of  the  Jewish  world- 
financier's  hand  in  even  some  of  his  most  intimate,  most 
jealously-cherished  monetary  ventures. 

When,  in  1907,  he  had  opened  up  the  South  Bechuana- 
land  Railway,  with  a  view  to  exploiting  the  Kuruman 
diamond-fields,  he  had  only  too  late  discovered  that 
Braunschweig  had  already  acquired  a  controlling  op- 

260 


THE  GREAT  JEW'S  OFFER       261 

tion  on  every  blue-clay  region  from  Barkley  northwest 
to  Molanuan.  The  Graf  had,  next  year,  fought  him 
in  the  Baku  oil-region  and  driven  him  ignominiously 
thence;  and  at  other  times  had  jockeyed  him  out  of 
some  millions  in  connection  with  the  Balkan-Turkish 
war,  the  Pan-European  catastrophe  and  the  Hui-nan 
Railway.  The  Jew's  ever-gaping  coffers  had,  in  a  score 
of  cases,  swallowed  profits  and  dividends  that  Murchi 
son  looked  upon  as  his  own  just  perquisites ;  and  though 
he  had  still  remained  the  richest  man  in  the  world,  yet 
he  had  been  forced  to  feel  the  menace  of  this  European 
power  and  to  take  cognizance  of  this  ever-expanding 
rivalry. 

Unable  to  check  it  or  to  effect  consolidation,  he  had 
fought — and  often  lost.  And,  gradually,  a  bitter  per 
sonal  hate  for  the  name  and  all  it  implied  had  grown 
up  in  the  billionaire's  soul. 

But  now,  now  that — alien  and  uninvited,  hostile  and 
menacing  despite  his  smile — the  man  himself  actually 
stood  there  before  him,  deferential,  yet  with  a  glint  of 
prescient  victory  in  his  eye,  Murchison  felt  the  bonds 
of  self-restraint  all  bursting. 

And  Wainwright,  too,  sprang  up;  Wainwright,  who 
at  the  Englewood  conference  had  sworn  "no  Heiny 
need  apply!" 

The  two  men  faced  Braunschweig.  Not  yet  under 
standing,  the  others  gasped  and  stared. 

Then,  for  a  moment,  tension  drew  fine  to  the  break 
ing-point. 

Murchison  snapped  it. 

"I  protest!"  ejaculated  he,  and  raised  his  fist  in  air. 
"You,  sir,  are  entitled  to  consideration  as  a  foreign 


262         THE  GOLDEN  BLIGHT 

nobleman;  I  grant  you  that.  But  as  an  uninvited 
intruder  at  this  important  gathering  of  financiers  and 
government  officials,  I  franklj  state  that  we  cannot 
welcome  you." 

Braunschweig  merely  smiled,  but  said  no  word. 
Campbell,  the  chairman,  gaped  in  amazement.  His 
should  have  been  the  place  to  speak,  in  the  name  of  this 
gathering ;  but  the  billionaire,  at  last  analysis  the  mas 
ter  of  them  all,  preempted  this  right,  and  the  others 
only  listened. 

"We  have  not  solicited  your  advice,"  continued  Mur- 
chison,  his  voice  rising  as  anger  swamped  caution. 
"We  have  not  requested  your  presence  here.  My  house 
is  open  to  you,  sir,  as  a  guest,  but  not  my  business 
affairs.  I  positively  must  ask  you  to  withdraw !" 

"Same  here !"  cried  Wainwright,  mottled  with  rage. 
"We  don't  want  any  infernal — " 

"There,  drop  that!"  Baker  choked  him  off,  clapping 
a  firm  hand  over  the  copper  czar's  mouth.  In  Wain- 
wright's  ear  he  whispered: 

"This  man  owns  more  than  twenty  per  cent,  of  the 
whole  of  Europe!  Kings  and  czars  obey  him.  He's 
the  'Unseen  Empire,'  I  tell  you.  Insult  him,  and  we're 
in  for  it!  Keep  quiet,  will  you?" 

Everybody  tried  to  talk  at  once.  Hands  waved  in 
air,  fists  shook,  and  faces  darkened  with  passion ;  reins 
stood  out  on  the  foreheads  of  world-renowned  finan 
ciers;  government  officials  of  the  highest  rank  forgot 
their  dignity  and  shouted  epithets,  bawled  gutter-filth 
at  one  another. 

Turmoil  reigned. 

The  Secretary  of  the  Treasury  even  tried  to  clamber 


THE  GREAT  JEW'S  OFFER       263 

on  to  his  desk,  whence  to  address  them;  but  strong 
hands  pulled  him  back. 

Alone  unmoved,  courteous,  patient — yet  still  with 
that  formidable  light  in  his  eye — Graf  Braunschweig 
stood  near  the  door.  His  tall  silk  hat  he  held  over 
his  heart.  On  his  bearded  lips  lingered  a  faint  sug 
gestion  of  a  smile. 

Murchison,  exhausted  by  the  poignancy  of  his  emo 
tions,  had  now  sat  down  again  and  was  staring  with 
intense  antipathy  at  the  Graf.  Much  as  he  hated  the 
man,  he  could  not  but  modify  his  opinion.  Where  he 
had  expected  a  red-jowled,  domineering  "junker"  of  the 
nouveau  riche  variety,  he  now  beheld  a  broad-browed, 
calm  and  massive  nobleman,  poised,  level,  strong. 

And,  as  by  intuition,  he  realized  that,  however  much 
the  assemblage  there  in  that  office  might  howl,  vociferate 
and  debate,  eventually  Braunschweig  would  get  a 
hearing. 

"The  quicker,  the  better,"  thought  Murchison. 
"Whatever  he  offers,  I'll  checkmate  him.  But  let  him 
speak,  at  least!" 

He  raised  his  own  hand;  and,  as  his  voice  began  to 
sound,  some  measure  of  order  returned. 

"For  this  reason,  if  no  other,"  he  concluded,  "we 
must  modify  our  first  hasty  judgment.  This  matter  is 
not  national  alone.  It  affects  the  whole  civilized 
world.  No  doubt  the  baron,  here,  brings  some  mes 
sage  from  Europe  which  may  perhaps  help  us  solve 
the  imminent  problem?" 

Braunschweig  nodded,  and  his  smile  broadened. 

"My  friends,"  said  he,  "gentlemen  all,"  and  shot  one 
quick  glance  at  Wainwright,  "I  come  with  a  message 


264         THE  GOLDEN  BLIGHT 

of  hope.  With  salvation,  to  speak  so.  No,  jour 
guards  should  not  keep  me  out;  you  should  not  to  ex 
clude  me.  On  the  contrary,  better  you  might  open 
all  doors  and  invite  me  in !  For  I,  gentlemen,  can  save 
you  all.  And  will — should  you  so  elect!" 

He  paused.  From  one  to  the  other  he  looked,  quiz 
zically,  with  an  intangible  mockery  that  struck  in 
deeper  than  an  open  gibe. 

"Go  on,  sir!"  exclaimed  Murchison,  reddening. 
"We  Americans,  I  believe,  can  save  ourselves,  if  salva 
tion  is  necessary,  without  any  foreign  assistance. 
But,  nevertheless,  continue.  If  you  have  any  business 
proposition  to  lay  before  this  gathering,  we're  here  to 
listen  to  it.  And  if  it's  a  good  one,  I  reckon  we  can 
take  it  up  in  one-two-three  order.  Kindly  continue." 

"I  will.  I  speak  to  you  of  the  great  Gold  Blight 
which  has  come  over  the  world.  It  has  struck  me,  too, 
gentlemen,  hard,  ah!  terribly  hard.  Nevertheless,  I 
am  hopeful.  I  have  abandoned  gold.  I  have  turned 
to  silver  as  the  means  to  save  modern  civilization.  Do 
you  understand  me?" 

"My  idea  exactly,  sir!"  exclaimed  somebody  at  the 
back  of  the  room. 

"Another  of  these  16-to-l  silver-basis  fanatics!" 
thought  Wainwright,  with  a  mental  groan.  "I  thought 
he  really  might  have  some  kind  of  decent  proposi 
tion!" 

"We  must  sink  ourselves,  personally,  in  this  effort 
to  secure  the  world  from  destruction,"  continued 
Braunschweig,  still  smiling.  "Let  this  unknown 
fanatic  do  his  worst.  Do  not  interfere  with  him.  It 
is  as  I  wireless-telegraphed  you,  nicht  wdhr? 


THE  GREAT  JEW'S  OFFER       265 

"Let  him  do  all  what  he  wish  to  gold.  Silver  re 
mains.  If  we  get  enough  silver  out  in  circulation  in 
the  whole  world  to  replace  the  gold,  nothing  much  can 
result." 

"Nothing  much?"  cried  the  billionaire.  "My  God, 
man!  Do  you  know  what's  happened  already?" 

"Oh,  yes,  yes,  of  course,  it  will  make  some  distur 
bances,  but  no  world-panic  or  overturning  of  civiliza 
tion.  Believe  me,  gentlemen,  there  is  no  other  way. 
Silver— that  is  all !" 

"Yes,  but,"  interposed  Murchison,  perplexed,  "what 
about  it  ?  What  do  you  offer  ?" 

He  had  expected  some  sort  of  deal,  some  vast  pro 
posal,  some  complex,  far-reaching  financial  scheme. 
This  simple,  obvious  idea,  containing  only  the  merest 
rudiments  of  A  B  C  suggestion,  disappointed  him. 

"What's  your  specific  plan?  Why  have  you  crossed 
the  ocean  at  top  speed  to  tell  us  this  kindergarten 
stuff?" 

Braunschweig  smiled  again,  more  cynically  than  ever. 

"Kindergarten,  yes,  I  admit  it,"  murmured  he,  "but, 
after  all,  it  is  the  practical  application  that  has  value. 

"Gentlemen,"  and  now  his  voice  went  a  tone  deeper, 
his  words  fell  more  slowly,  and  his  smile  had  vanished 
quite,  "gentlemen,  I  come  not  to  you  with  empty  words 
or  meaningless  phrases.  I  come  with  cash,  cash, 
gentlemen,  to  help  make  good  all  your  present  or  your 
possible  losses!" 

A  kind  of  communal  gasp  rose  from  the  assemblage, 
now  silent  and  frozen  to  keen  attention. 

"Cash?"  exclaimed  Murchison,  starting  forward. 
"What— what  d'jou  mean?" 


266          THE  GOLDEN  BLIGHT 

"This!"  And  Braunschweig,  thrusting  a  hand  into 
the  pocket  of  his  vast  Kamchatkan  sea-otter  coat, 
drew  out  two  metal  cubes. 

One,  small  and  yellow,  resembled  gold.  The  other, 
larger  far,  shone  with  a  silver  hue. 

"My  friends,"  said  the  Jew,  as  though  lecturing  them 
on  some  indifferent  topic,  "this  smaller  cube  is  brass. 
I  would  have  shown  you  gold,  except  for  the  unfortun 
ate  fact  that,  outside  the  national  treasuries,  none  now 
exists  in  Europe,  America  or  on  the  high  seas.  I  start 
ed  from  Amsterdam  with  a  cube  of  gold,  of  this  size, 
but  in  latitude  48°  27'  North,  longitude  31°,  12',  18" 
West,  it  crumbled  to  ashes.  So  I  had  my  chief  engineer 
make  me  this  cube  of  brass  to  represent  it,  and  help 
me  in  my  explanation. 

"Imagine  this,  now,  as  pure  gold.  It  would  weigh 
one  ounce,  and  under  normal  conditions  be  worth 
$20.673.  The  silver  cube  has  the  same  value.  Though 
so  greatly  different  in  size,  they  are  equal  in  purchasing 
power — or  were,  before  the  Blight  struck  the  world. 

"Well,  gentlemen,  now  that  so  much  of  the  gold  is 
only  ashes — " 

A  loud,  persistent  ringing  of  the  telephone-bell  on 
the  director's  desk  interrupted  Braunschweig.  He  did 
not  even  frown,  but  remained  there,  calm  and  easy, 
waiting  till  the  disturbance  should  have  subsided  before 
attempting  to  finish. 

"Hello,  hello!"  cried  Campbell,  his  ear  at  the  re 
ceiver. 

A  voice,  far  off,  yet  slow  and  very  distinct,  came 
over  the  wire: 

"You've  got  only  two  minutes  more !     I'm  watching 


THE  GREAT  JEW'S  OFFER       267 

the  tower.  If  the  white  flag  doesn't  go  up  at  11:45 
sharp,  look  out !" 

Campbell,  clutching  at  the  instrument  as  though  to 
catch  the  man  at  the  other  end  of  the  wire  by  the 
throat,  gasped: 

"Hold  on  there!     Wait!     Let  me—" 

But  the  voice  said :  "Nothing  to  discuss.  No  argu 
ment.  I  demand  unconditional  surrender.  Good-by !" 

Then  came  the  click  of  Storm  hanging  up  his  re 
ceiver. 

Campbell,  chalky,  whirled  round  and  faced  the  silent 
gathering. 

"He— he— the  Blight—!" 

"What?"  snarled  Wainwright,  with  a  curse.  "He's 
on  the  wire?  Here!  Don't  let  him  go,  damn  him! 
Don't—!" 

Already  Murchison  had  sprung  toward  the  desk,  his 
hand  quivering  with  eagerness,  his  face  the  color  of 
old  wax. 

"He's  gone !"  cried  Campbell.     "No  use !" 

"Gone?"  shrilled  Murchison.     "What  did  he  say?" 

"He  said  that — in  two  minutes,  if  you  don't  yield — 
he'll  strike  the  government  gold!" 

Tumult  burst  forth;  but  the  great  Jew,  pushing  his 
way  to  the  desk,  banged  on  it  with  his  cube  of  silver. 

"Silence,  I  beg  of  you,  my  friends!"  pleaded  he. 
"Only  hear  me,  now!  Why  yourselves  alarm,  need 
lessly?  Why  be  excited?" 

"Why?"  bellowed  the  copper  czar.  "This  maniac  is 
going  to  blight  the  national  reserve  of  the  United 
States,  in  a  couple  of  minutes,  and  you — you  ask — ?" 

Words  failed  him.     His  face  grew  purple  and  his 


268         THE  GOLDEN  BLIGHT 

bull-neck  swelled  with  rage  as  he  glared  at  the  impas 
sive  Braunschweig. 

"It  makes  nothing,"  declared  the  Jewish  financier, 
calmly.  "Let  him  do  as  he  pleases.  That  does  not 
invalidate  mj  offer,  my  cash  offer!  See,  now,  I  con 
tinue  as  before.  I  still  save  the  situation!" 

He  paused.  Silence  now  held  the  assembly,  silence 
broken  only  by  the  heavy  breathing  of  Wainwright  and 
the  billionaire,  and  by  the  fateful  ticking  of  the  clock, 
each  second  bringing  catastrophe  nearer,  nearer  still. 

"You  save  it,  eh?"  suddenly  sneered  Murchison. 
"Well,  how?  See  here,  Graf,  if  you've  got  anything 
up  your  sleeve,  trot  it  out,  almighty  sudden.  For  I 
reckon  we  are  standing  on  the  edge  of  a  volcano,  this 
very  minute !" 

"No,  no,  not  so  bad  as  you  think  it,"  Braunschweig 
reassured  him.  He  destroys  the  national  gold,  as 
he  has  destroyed  the  private?  Very  well.  I  buy  the 
ashes,  ja!  I,  Maximilian  Braunschweig — I  purchase 
all  you  bring  me,  from  everywhere,  paying  silver !" 

"Eh?  What?"  cried  Murchison,  gripping  the  back 
of  a  chair,  to  steady  himself. 

"My  yacht,  Der  Sieger,  on  which  I  have  just  arrived, 
now  lies  at  a  pier  in  the  East  River.  Do  you  know 
what  it  is  ballasted  with?  Silver!  A  six-thousand-ton 
ship,  gentlemen — and  not  one  pound  of  rock  or  water 
ballast." 

Dead  silence  muted  every  breath.  Every  eye  stared 
at  this  amazing  man,  who  only  smiled  benignly  as  in 
simple  words,  as  though  passing  the  time  of  day,  he 
told  them  the  news  incredible. 

"Silver  coin,  my  friends,  kroner,  thaler,  francs,  lire, 


THE  GREAT  JEW'S  OFFER       269 

all  kinds,  from  Germany,  Holland,  Belgium  and 
Luxembourg.  And  silver  bars,  also.  Bullion!  AcU9 
ja!  Tons  of  silver  bars !" 

He  paused  a  moment  and  looked  slowly  round  at  the 
dumb-stricken  money-ghouls. 

The  clock  already  pointed  at  11 :45. 

Then  said  he: 

"In  the  ratio  of  five  to  one  I  buy.  One  pound  of 
ashes,  five  pounds  of  silver.  No  theoretical  deals, 
gentlemen;  no  speculative  trading.  The  actual,  physi 
cal,  cash  purchase!  Do  you  understand  me? 

"I  weigh  out  five  pounds  of  silver;  you  give  me  one 
pound  of  gold-ash.  So!  Simple,  yes;  but  it  saves 
you  all.  You  lose  something,  I  admit,  but  not  every 
thing.  The  monetary  system  changes.  But  business 
continues.  Civilization  goes  on,  and  the  supremacy 
of  capital!  I  buy!  If  I  have  not  silver  enough  here, 
I  bring  more.  I  buy!  Do  you  hear  me,  gentlemen?" 

Again  a  disturbance  interrupted  the  Jewish  finan 
cier's  harangue. 

At  the  door  a  violent  pounding  was  heard. 

"Open!     Open!"  cried  terrified  voices. 

Somebody  flung  back  the  door. 

In  staggered  a  gray-bearded  man  in  blue  uniform 
and  official  cap — one  of  the  Sub-Treasury  assistants. 
High  in  his  trembling  hand  he  shook  a  canvas  bag. 

Flaccid  and  loose  it  waved  in  air. 

"Oh,  my  God!"  sobbed  he;  and  tears  rained  down 
his  wrinkled,  anguished  face. 

Murchison  gripped  his  arm,  while  Wainwright  shout 
ed  some  hoarse,  unintelligible  thing  and  the  others  afl 
came  crowding. 


270         THE  GOLDEN  BLIGHT 

"What — what  now?"  demanded  the  billionaire,  shak 
ing  the  employee  with  frenzy. 

"Look!"  gasped  the  man. 

He  twitched  the  binding  string  of  the  canvas  bag. 

"They're  all  like  that !"  cried  he.  "The  vaults— are 
empty — now !" 

And  out  in  a  fine,  trickling  stream  on  Campbell's 
desk  he  poured  a  stream  of  that  same  hideous,  gray, 
metallic  dust. 

"The  Blight!"  gulped  he,  and — his  arms  outflung — 
fell  fainting  on  the  heap  of  ruin. 


CHAPTER  XXXI 

THE    GEEAT    SPECULATION 

THUS  began  that  incredible,  wild  epoch  of  gold-ash 
speculation.  That  period  of  a  new,  never  till  then 
dreamed  of,  commerce,  which  for  a  brief  time  revivi 
fied  the  dying  System,  as  a  guttering  lamp-flame  will 
flare  and  flicker  high  just  before  the  final  black. 

Thus  was  exhaled  that  expiring,  febrile  gasp  of  cap 
italism,  which,  like  a  moribund  treated  with  oxygen  or 
galvanism,  seems  to  take  on  new  life — but  onlv  seems ! 

The  white  flag  did  not  wave  over  the  Metropolitan 
Tower. 

Braunschweig's  entry  into  the  situation  instantly 
checked  all  thought  of  capitulation. 

Even  before  the  Sub-Treasury  meeting  broke  up, 
that  point  was  settled.  No  surrender!  The  Graf's 
offer  of  silver  for  gold-ash  rendered  possible  a  volte- 
face  movement  on  the  part  of  all  hesitants. 

"Fight !"  now  the  watchword  became.  And  "Fight !" 
alone. 

"Let  Storm  do  his  worst — it  will  cause  only  a 
temporary  disturbance,"  said  the  gold-jackals. 
"Silver  can  replace  gold  without  necessarily  wrecking 
the  System.  And,  above  all,  the  1,200  tons  of  national- 
reserve  gold  still  in  Washington  are  as  yet  untouched. 

We  still  live !" 

271 


272          THE  GOLDEN  BLIGHT 

Buried  in  the  deepest  vaults,  with  heavy  lead-foil 
wrappings,  then  layers  of  isinglass  and  still  more  "ray- 
shields"  of  a  secret  composition,  the  final  redoubt  of 
the  System  still  lay  intact. 

Even  though  all  the  outworks  had  been  successively 
taken  and  destroyed,  this  yet  resisted.  Storm  had  not 
yet  succeeded  in  reducing  it  to  dust.  Not  yet  had  he 
mastered  the  combination  which  would  pierce  these  mas 
sive,  mysterious  shields. 

Nor  had  the  government  been  able,  yet,  to  lay  hands 
on  its  tormentor.  Acting  on  Murchison's  information, 
Secret  Service  men  had  drawn  their  drag-net  all  across 
the  locality  where  the  electrocuted  man  had  been  found 
in  the  alley;  but  Storm  had  not  been  found.  Once 
more  he  had  flitted;  and  so  skilful,  so  secret  had  been 
his  going  and  his  re-establishment  in  some  other  nook 
or  cranny  of  the  great  metropolis,  that  every  clue  had 
failed  and  every  trail  led  only  to  a  cul  de  sac. 

Thus,  from  some  darkly  hidden  den,  he  still  was 
flinging  out  his  rays  of  gold-destruction.  But  a  check, 
at  last,  had  been  put  upon  his  activities.  Even  though 
all  the  outworks  of  Capitalism  had  at  last  been  suc 
cessively  taken  and  destroyed,  a  few  nuclei  of  gold  still 
defied  him. 

Beside  the  ultimate  1,200  tons  in  the  National  Treas 
ury,  some  of  the  European  war-hoards  and  a  few  in 
Asia  still  existed — such  as  the  hidden  and  fabled  Man- 
chu  loot  of  100,000,000  taels,  the  Sublime  Forte's 
2,500,000,000  piasters,  the  Ameer  of  Gond's  4,000  lakhs 
of  rupees  and  some  others. 

But,  so  far  as  could  be  discovered,  every  other  known 
bit  of  yellow  metal  on  earth,  whether  in  the  form  of 


THE  GREAT  SPECULATION      273 

coins,  jewelry,  ore,  or  what  not,  had  now  been  swept 
into  seeming  oblivion. 

And  the  ash  began  to  come  to  Braunschweig  in  en 
velopes,  in  buckskin  bags,  in  metal  and  wooden  boxes, 
in  barrels,  in  vans  and  trucks  and  car-load  lots. 

The  United  States  government  sold  to  him.  Mur- 
chison  sold,  and  Wainwright,  and  Baker,  and  all  the 
capitalists,  big,  little  or  medium.  Foreign  govern 
ments  began  selling.  Russia  and  Japan  vied  with  each 
other  in  unloading  ash.  France  and  Germany  for  once 
were  in  accord,  in  accepting  his  world-wide  offer,  which 
had  been  cabled  everywhere  and  in  divers  languages  had 
been  posted  in  every  bank,  bourse,  exchange  and  gov 
ernment-finance  office  in  the  world.  As  with  a  uni 
versal  besom,  the  Jew  swept  the  world's  gold-ash  into 
his  coffers. 

Banks  everywhere  tumbled  over  each  other  in  their 
eagerness  to  unload;  trust  companies  forwarded  their 
wreckage  by  special  armed  messengers — and  fights  took 
place  in  the  public  streets  of  the  cities  for  ash. 

Ash,  from  being  worthless,  instantly  became  highly 
valuable.  Men  now  regretted  having  tossed  it  away. 
Drawers  were  rummaged,  floors  swept,  catch-basins 
and  plumbing  dredged,  houses  turned  topsy-turvy  to 
recover  it.  And  another  tremendous  wave  of  disturb 
ance,  greater  even  than  the  first  crest  of  destruction, 
swept  the  world. 

For  Braunschweig's  operations  were  world-wide. 

The  news  of  his  offer  was  not  five  minutes  old  before 
it  was  flashing  from  Labrador  to  San  Antonio,  from 
the  Yukon  Valley  to  Punta  Arenas,  from  Lisbon  to 
Vladivostok,  from  Tokyo  to  Petrograd.  All  round 


274          THE  GOLDEN  BLIGHT 

the  world  and  back  again,  up  and  down  the  map,  radiat 
ing  from  every  city  to  all  towns  and  villages,  to  every 
hamlet,  to  every  house  and  farm  and  mining-camp  and 
ranch — everywhere,  without  exception,  over  the  whole 
surface  of  the  civilized  and  even  much  of  the  barbarous 
world — it  thrilled  and  quivered:  "Silver  for  your 
ash!" 

The  Jewish  banker's  silver  supply  seemed  as  inex 
haustible  as  the  inpouring  floods  of  ash.  His  series 
of  operations  covered  the  entire  earth.  On  the  very 
afternoon  of  his  arrival  in  New  York,  less  than  an 
hour  after  his  interview  with  the  startled  bankers  in 
the  Sub-Treasury,  he  gave  the  order  for  the  opening 
of  a  huge  suite  of  offices  in  the  Woolworth  Building. 
At  the  same  moment,  a  vast  series  of  similar  offices 
opened  in  every  city  in  the  world  with  more  than  100,- 
000  population. 

These  offices,  already  arranged  for  in  America 
through  his  agents,  Konig  &  Breitenbach,  and  in 
Europe,  Asia,  Africa  and  Australia  through  his  cor 
related  banking-houses,  all  threw  open  their  doors 
simultaneously,  for  the  sole,  exclusive  purpose  of  buy 
ing  gold-ash.  The  Dai  Nippon  Ginko  handled  the  busi 
ness  in  Japan  and  China.  India,  Arabia,  the  west 
coast  of  Africa,  Siam  and  the  Straits  Settlements  were 
covered  by  the  Jhejeeboy's  Banking  System.  The 
Russian  Empire  sold  through  Kadnikof  Brothers,  while 
Australia  dealt  with  the  firm  of  McDowell  &  Hargison. 

A  map  of  the  world,  showing  each  of  these  singular 
financial  nuclei,  was  hung  in  the  Graf's  private  office  on 
the  thirty-sixth  story  of  the  Woolworth  Building. 
Every  branch-office  was  marked  by  a  red  dot.  The 


THE  GREAT  SPECULATION      275 

world  seemed  to  have  suddenly  developed  an  exaggerat 
ed  case  of  small-pox,  on  a  cosmic  scale. 

Estimates  place  their  number  in  the  entire  world 
(though  the  Graf  refused  to  affirm  or  deny  this  num 
ber)  at  some  30,000.  There  may  have  been  more — 
perhaps  as  many  as  35,000,  all  told,  inasmuch  as  a 
good  many  branches  were  in  a  few  days  opened  in  towns 
even  smaller  than  the  100,000  limit.  In  North  America 
alone,  not  including  Mexico,  which  had  654,  Braun 
schweig  established  7,328. 

At  each  of  these  branches,  whether  located  on  the 
Russian  tundra,  in  Chile  or  Bolivia,  in  Texas  or  New 
foundland,  the  Jewish  baron's  duly  qualified  agents 
either  paid  out,  by  weight,  the  actual  silver  coin  or 
bullion  for  the  gold-ash,  in  the  ratio  of  five  pounds  of 
silver  to  one  pound  of  ash;  or  else,  in  case  the  seller 
preferred,  they  gave  silver  certificates  of  Braun 
schweig's  own  issue. 

No  government  interfered  in  this  arrogation  of  the 
money-issuing  power,  for  every  government  felt  itself 
tottering  over  an  abyss.  At  any  moment  the  last  and 
greatest  hoards  of  gold,  in  national  hands,  might 
crumble,  At  any  second,  Storm  in  his  hiding-place 
might  readjust  his  mechanism,  find  the  proper  wave 
length  or  combination  of  lengths,  and  smash  the  final 
treasure.  And  what  then? 

Braunschweig  had  become,  to  the  capitalist  class  as 
a  whole,  the  figure  of  a  universal  redeemer;  and  from 
reviling  him,  the  press  and  pulpit,  the  universities  and 
great  public  agencies  of  information  began  to  laud  him 
to  the  zenith  and  to  couple  his  name  with  those  of  the 
world's  illustrious  benefactors. 


276          THE  GOLDEN  BLIGHT 

Such  was  the  will  of  the  capitalist  class;  and  that 
will,  now  as  always,  twitched  the  puppet-strings  of 
state  and  church,  newspaper  and  college. 

Murchison  raged  secretly,  immured  at  Edgecliff  with 
his  shrunken  but  still  enormous  fortune  in  silver  and  in 
industrial  holdings.  Yet  he  held  his  peace — and 
waited. 

Revenge,  he  felt,  might  still  come  to  his  hand.  Not 
more  savage  were  his  thoughts  against  John  Storm  than 
against  the  Graf,  his  rival,  now  dominating  all.  Even 
the  fact  that  Braunschweig  had  kept  him  from  being 
utterly  wiped  out  in  a  universal  bankruptcy  where 
mines  and  railways,  oil-wells  and  trust  bonds  alike 
would  have  collapsed,  could  not  soften  the  billionaire's 
heart  against  "that  damned  pig  of  a  Jew,"  as  he  still 
thought  of  him. 

Never  could  he  forgive  the  fact  that  Braunschweig 
had  dictated  to  him,  had  displaced  him  in  the  world's 
eye,  had  played  the  game  better  and  harder  than  he 
himself.  Murchison  forgot  to  hate  John  Storm  in 
hating  Braunschweig.  An  overpowering  fear  of  the 
Jew,  also,  grew  upon  him. 

"For  Heaven's  sake,  what's  his  motive?"  wondered 
he,  pacing  the  library  floor.  "The  man  may  be  mad, 
but  he's  not  a  driveling  idiot.  And  he's  parting  with 
silver,  solid  silver  or  its  equivalent  in  certificates ! 
What  for?  For  worthless  ash!  My  God,  why?" 

Why,  indeed? 

Murchison  thirsted  for  the  answer,  as  never  in  his 
whole  long  life  of  loot  and  ravagement  had  he  desired 
anything.  Had  he  but  been  able  to  solve  this  riddle, 
he  felt  he  might  still  outplay  the  Graf,  might  still  take 


THE  GREAT  SPECULATION      277 

vengeance  on  him  and  overthrow  him.  But,  lacking 
the  key,  the  problem  presented  to  him  only  a  blank, 
insoluble  face.  And  so  he  frayed  his  nerves,  in  vain, 
clutching  at  hypothesis  after  hypothesis,  but  finding 
none  more  stable  than  ropes  of  sand. 

The  question  drove  Murchison  right  to  the  doors  of 
insanity.  It  haunted,  lashed  and  tortured  him  till  his 
brain  reeled;  but  answer  came  there  none.  Yet,  all 
this  time — as  the  papers  told  Murchison  and  as  his 
brokers  kept  him  well-informed — Braunschweig  kept 
silently,  methodically,  persistently  buying  ash. 

Presently — whereat  Murchison's  hate  and  rage  were 
supplemented  by  a  consuming  fear — the  Graf  began 
purchasing  not  only  the  ash  itself,  but  also  properly 
certified  ash-certificates,  representing  the  existence  of  a 
certain  quantity  of  ash  of  specified  fineness. 

His  action  inevitably  led  others  to  imitate  him.  Not 
that  anybody  understood;  but  many  felt  that,  if  the 
Jewish  banker  foresaw  something,  this  something  must 
be  of  tremendous  importance. 

So  rose  the  strangest  speculative  tide  ever  known 
in  the  history  of  the  world,  bar  none — the  Gold-Ash 
Speculation. 

Murchison  was  not  drawn  into  this  huge  maelstrom. 
Neither  was  Wainwright.  Both  held  aloof.  But 
Baker,  in  secret,  through  his  brokers,  took  a  fling  at  it ; 
and  so  did  scores  of  others,  the  biggest  names  in  the 
financial  "Who's  Who." 

Every  bourse  and  stock-exchange  in  the  world,  from 
San  Francisco  to  Tokyo,  and  right  round  through 
Vienna,  Paris,  Berlin,  and  London,  to  New  York,  began 
to  handle  Gold-ash,  common  or  preferred. 


278          THE  GOLDEN  BLIGHT 

Financiers  of  every  race,  color,  creed  and  language 
plunged  into  this  new  gamble.  What  remnants  of 
manufacturing  and  commerce  had  been  left  now  stood 
in  danger  of  being  swept  wholly  away  on  the  flood-tide 
of  this  fresh  madness. 

Everywhere  business  died.  Unemployed  millions 
began  to  swarm,  to  starve,  to  riot  everywhere.  They 
could  not  strike,  for  now  there  were  no  jobs.  Vast 
forays  began — lootings  for  actual  food,  reminding  one 
of  Hanseatic  days,  Crusading  times,  the  earlier  incur 
sions  of  the  Goths  and  Vandals  into  Roman  civilization, 
or  even  the  ravishment  of  the  territories  occupied  by 
the  Germans  in  the  Pan-European  War.  And  in  the 
resultant  disorders  throughout  the  world,  the  military 
forces  more  often  than  not  turned  against  their 
masters. 

Strange  tales  drifted  in  from  here,  from  there ;  tales 
that  reduced  the  French  revolution  jacqueries  to 
child's-play ;  that  brought  the  Russian  revolution  of 
1905  down  to  the  proportions  of  a  mere  riot. 

History  does  not  record  that  epoch  clearly ;  those 
days  have  all  but  escaped  it.  Only  its  larger  outlines 
are  plain — here  a  dynasty  crumbling,  there  a  republic 
founded  on  the  blazing  pyre  of  an  age-long  monarchy, 
yonder  an  aristocracy  wiped  out  in  blood.  The  record 
was  all  blurred,  distorted  and  unreal.  Every  news 
service  was  totally  disorganized.  Battles  were  fought, 
barricades  defended  and  taken  by  storm,  aerial  attacks 
delivered  against  rebellious  provinces  and  cities,  massa 
cres  perpetrated — and  History  hardly  wrote  even  the 
dates,  on  her  mutilated  tablets.  The  world  was  deaf 
and  blind,  now,  to  everything  but  Ash,  Ash,  Ash! 


THE  GREAT  SPECULATION       279 

Headlines,  editorials,  market-quotations,  all  hung  on 
Ash.  Governments  stood  or  fell,  by  the  power  of  Ash. 
The  world  revolved  for  Ash,  alone. 

Madness  reigned,  indeed. 

Everywhere,  now — forgetting  politics,  social  life, 
family,  friends,  organization  of  all  kinds — men  were 
frantically  speculating  in  Ash.  Everywhere  they  were 
buying  and  selling  it,  outright,  short,  or  on  margin; 
dealing  in  gold-ash  as  they  one  time  had  dealt  in  the 
fictitious,  watered  values  of  oil,  or  coal,  or  railways — 
only  now  with  a  fierce  abandon  that  cast  utterly  into 
the  shade  all  previous  speculative  movements  in  the 
world's  history. 

A  whole  special  sheaf  of  technical  papers,  devoted 
to  Ash,  sprouted  up  like  mushrooms.  Ash-assay 
offices  burgeoned  everywhere;  and  fortunes  were  made 
(in  silver)  by  scientific  men — charlatans,  some — who 
could  analyze  and  pass  judgment  on  the  fineness  of  the 
material ;  or  who  could  make  pretense  of  doing  so. 

Inside  of  a  few  days  an  enormous  Ash  Conspiracy  de 
veloped,  for  the  production  and  sale  of  spurious  dust. 
Many  financiers  and  not  a  few  formerly  expert  counter 
feiters,  chemists  and  scientists  were  involved  in  this. 
More  than  thirty-five  were  arrested,  in  America  and 
Europe ;  and  in  the  height  of  public  passion,  nearly  all 
were  railroaded  for  long  sentences. 

A  man  named  Warren  F.  Hazelton  was  lynched,  in 
Pittsburgh,  merely  on  suspicion  of  having  manufactured 
imitation  Ash.  Judicial,  social,  economic  and  financial 
anarchy  reared  its  snarling  head. 

The  holiday  season  passed  unnoticed,  for  the  first 
time  in  the  history  of  civilization.  As  well  try  to  ob- 


280         THE  GOLDEN  BLIGHT 

serve  Christmas,  at  such  a  time,  as  to  make  merry  on  a 
water-logged  raft  in  mid- Atlantic  gales. 

Quick-shifting,  elusive  pools  were  formed,  to  make 
some  pretense  of  fighting  Braunschweig  and  his  chain 
of  purchasing  offices;  but  so  bitterly  was  each  man  at 
his  neighbor's  throat,  that  little  concerted  action  was 
possible. 

Yet,  for  a  while,  buyers  were  secretly  sent  out,  post 
haste,  both  in  the  Old  World  and  the  New;  sent  even 
to  the  uttermost  highways  and  hedges,  to  root  out 
more  and  still  more  of  the  precious  stuff. 

No  village,  no  hamlet  was  too  insignificant  to  be 
overlooked,  whether  by  these  agents  or  by  the  Graf's. 
Alike  the  whiskered  farmer  on  the  shores  of  Lake  Cham- 
plain;  the  lumber-jack  in  his  mackinaw  among  the 
spruce  and  fir  of  Mount  Katahdin ;  the  high-booted 
moujik  in  his  Siberian  mir;  the  Bengali  ryot  among  his 
rice-paddies ;  the  Zufii  patriarch ;  the  Bolivian  muleteer ; 
the  priest,  the  bar-keep,  the  bishop,  the  prostitute — all 
were  approached  by  these  ubiquitous  agents,  eager  to 
buy  even  a  pinch  of  dust  that  represented  perhaps  the 
sole  family  bit  of  jewelry,  the  wedding-ring,  the  anklet, 
the  nose-pendant,  the  cross  of  military  honor  or  the 
sacred  amulet  or  scapulary — no  matter  what. 

And  thus,  swept  in  by  uncounted  thousands  of  eager 
searchers,  the  Ash  accumulated.  Thus  the  world, 
seemingly  gone  mad,  scrabbled  on  the  ash-heap  of  the 
vanished  gold  that  once  had  been  master  of  all. 

Scandals  sprang  up  apace;  Ash  deals,  beside  which 
the  Credit  Mobilier,  the  United  States  Bank  fraud,  the 
South  Sea  Island  Bubble,  and  all  past  speculative  or 
legislative  frauds  were  as  mere  nothings. 


THE  GREAT  SPECULATION      281 

Law  vanished.  Greed  and  might  and  the  baseness 
of  the  human  heart  lusting  for  sudden,  unearned 
wealth,  ruled  supreme.  Save  for  the  Social-Philoso 
phers,  who  then  numbered  hardly  more  than  50,000,000 
in  the  world,  few  men  were  wholly  sane,  those  days. 

Yet  the  great  Jew,  calmly  smiling,  patriarchal  still, 
— unheeding  the  torrents  of  praise  and  adulation  as 
also  the  floods  of  violent  and  abusive  letters  that  poured 
in  on  him  and  the  many  fanatics  who  sought  to  take  his 
life — sat  in  his  heavily  guarded  inner  offices  on  Broad 
way,  quietly,  patiently,  systematically  gathering  in 
what  others  culled  and  reaped  for  him,  what  others 
sought  and  travailed  and  died  for — in  their  own  inter 
est,  as  they  thought,  but  truly  in  his. 

For  to  him  the  world-wide  game  now  fighting  itself 
out  confusedly  to  some  vast,  vague  issue,  was  as  moth 
er's  milk  to  the  lips  of  a  babe.  Though  with  the  un 
loading  of  silver  its  value  dropped ;  and  though  Ash 
mounted  as  its  speculative  worth  leaped  up,  yet  he  re 
mained  unfaltering. 

His  coffers  gaped  wide  open;  his  incalculable  silver 
supply  swirled  out  like  water  through  the  penstocks 
at  Niagara.  He  only  smiled,  and  waited. 

With  the  astute  skill  of  a  master,  he  swept  the 
strings  of  the  world-harp;  and  the  harmonies  wove 
themselves  higher,  fuller,  day  by  day — they  crystallized 
in  the  form  of  a  strange  treasure-heap,  a  bursting, 
overflowing  mountain  of  seeming  nothingness,  such  as, 
since  time  was,  the  world  had  never  seen — a  hoard  of 
dust,  of  ashes ! 

Load  by  load,  after  it  had  been  assayed  and  sorted 
and  packed  in  specially  prepared  buckskin  bags, 


282          THE  GOLDEN  BLIGHT 

Braunschweig  shipped  it  to  Washington  by  special 
trains,  with  his  own  guards,  heavily  armed,  in  attend 
ance. 

For  at  Washington  existed  the  only  zone  of  actual 
order  and  safety  now  to  be  found  in  the  entire  United 
States.  Elsewhere,  danger  threatened  at  all  times. 
In  the  Federal  District,  at  least,  some  semblance  of  rule 
still  persisted. 

Since  the  Jew  at  last,  in  his  own  person,  absolutely 
dominated  the  world  governments — even  banding  to 
gether  as  they  now  were  into  a  Weltverein — he  de 
manded  and  secured  the  right  to  store  this  hoard  in 
the  vast,  unused  subcellars  under  the  north  wing  of 
the  Treasury  Building  and  under  a  portion  of  the 
center. 

Here,  day  by  day,  the  Ash  accumulated. 

And  under  the  arches,  dim  lit  with  dusty  incan- 
descents,  toiling  figures  patiently  stacked  tiers  on 
tiers,  massive  shelves  upon  shelves,  of  bags  of  ash 
gathered  from  Nome  to  Coolgardie,  from  Yokohama  to 
Quebec. 

Thus,  hour  by  hour,  Fate  drew  her  snares. 

Thus  she  meshed  the  cords  and  twined  the  net  about 
her  victims,  blindty,  impersonally,  inexorably. 

Thus  "the  moving  finger  writ." 

Yet  all  these  days  of  madness  John  Storm  remained 
both  calm  and  full  of  sober,  contemplative  foresight. 

Safely  and  undiscoverably  hidden  in  an  obscure  nook 
far  over  on  Avenue  A,  on  the  East  Side,  master  of  the 
world  yet  dwelling  in  a  noisome  slum,  unnoticed  and 
unknown,  he  waited. 


THE  GREAT  SPECULATION      283 

Forgotten  now  was  he — almost  forgotten  even  by  the 
Triumvirate  and  those  who  shared  their  knowledge,  in 
that  huge,  indrawing,  vortical  madness  which  consti 
tuted  the  last  days. 

If  Murchison  and  Wainwright  and  the  others  now 
thought  of  him  at  all,  it  was  but  as  an  arriere-pensee,  a 
somewhat  blurred  memory,  no  longer  to  be  reckoned 
with.  He  seemed  to  have  done  his  worst.  True,  he 
had  wrecked  the  former  status  of  the  world;  yet  they 
had  not  capitulated.  No  surrender  had  been  given. 
Tumult  and  chaos  reigned;  all  standards  save  that  of 
Ash  had  gone  by  the  board ;  yet  the  System  might  still 
emerge  triumphant.  And  those  who  knew,  at  times 
even  sneered  in  their  hearts  at  this  mad  dreamer  and 
wild  visionary.  Sore-wounded  themselves,  they  still 
triumphed — when  they  recalled  the  man,  at  all — in  the 
belief  that  his  last  bolt  was  sped,  his  last  trump  played, 
and  lost ! 

Insane  with  fear  and  the  mania  of  gold-ash  specula 
tion,  the  public  forgot  even  its  unanswered  wonder  as 
to  the  cause  of  the  Blight.  Safer,  more  secure  than 
an  anchorite  in  a  cell,  Storm  prepared  the  formula 
and  worked  out  the  complex  diagrams,  the  combina 
tions  and  permutations  of  Hertzian,  cathode,  N  and 
Z  rays  for  his  final  blow. 

Between  times  he  studied  his  periscope  for  some  sign 
of  the  white  flag ;  or  carried  forward  still  another  re 
action  in  his  experiments  on  atmospheric  nitrogen;  or 
again  read  the  disjointed  papers  with  their  screaming 
falsehoods,  smoked  his  pipe  and  dreamed  of  the  un 
attainable  Mindanaos. 

On  one  of  the  last  nights  before  he  hoped  to  loosen 


284         THE  GOLDEN  BLIGHT 

the  supreme  blow,  he  came  upon  a  few  brief  paragraphs 
in  "The  Coming  Nation." 

These  he  reread  minutely,  then  clipped  and  pasted 
Lthem<  on  manila  paper,  ready  for  filing. 

"Sometime,"  mused  he,  "the  world  as  a  whole  will 
realize  their  truth.  Sometime  these  ideas,  which  are 
my  own,  too,  will  dominate.  Sometime — after  I  shall 
have  swept  away  the  final  remnants  of  the  curse  of 
gold!" 

A  moment  he  gazed  at  them. 

"Here,  at  last,  is  truth!"  said  he,  and  slowly  read 
aloud  as  though  to  sense  the  full  import  of  the  words: 

All  this  war-madness  because  some  gentlemen  who  make  guns 
and  ships  happen  to  need  the  money?  No,  not  quite  all.  Back 
of  them,  and  of  the  rest  of  the  bloodthirsty  nonsense  is  another 
and  greater  fact,  compelling  all  and  directing  all. 

Back  of  the  whole  mad  story  is  the  tremendous  fact  of  an 
unconsumed  surplus  of  goods,  under  capitalism;  a  surplus  that, 
recognized  or  unrecognized,  pushes  the  nations  along  steadily 
to  war. 

What  shall  the  capitalists  do  with  their  mass  of  products  that 
yearly  mounts  upon  them?  Something,  of  course,  is  achieved 
when  we  build  a  battle-ship,  because  that  is  worthless  in  ten 
years,  and  therefore  deteriorates  at  the  rate  of  $1,000,000  every 
twelve  months.  Something  is  gained  when  we  compel  China  to 
take  a  loan  she  does  not  want  and  cannot  use,  for  that  provides 
additional  bonds  for  our  banking  system  and  helps  out  the  im 
periled  balance  of  trade.  But  these  are  no  more  than  palliatives. 
Still  the  surplus  of  goods  mounts.  Nothing  but  war  will  really 
keep  it  down. 

Therefore,  being  civilized  people  and  highly  intelligent,  us  for 
the  battle-field! 

Storm  paused  a  little,  to  think.     Then  he  nodded. 

"H-m !"  remarked  he.  "  'Civilized !  Highly  intelli 
gent!' — not!  But  there's  hope  still,  lots  of  hope.  I 
can  save  man  from  murder,  even  in  spite  of  his  own 


THE  GREAT  SPECULATION      285 

brutishness.     Yes,  eren  though  I  now  make  thousands 
suffer  or  even  die,  in  the  end  I  shall  save  millions  un 
counted  and  regenerate  the  world.     I  can — I  will!" 
He  read  again : 

If  we  kill  enougk  of  one  another,  we  can  dodge  that  surplus 
problem  for  a  time,  anyway.  In  a  world  where  the  majority  of 
the  inhabitants  lire  in  destitution,  want,  and  misery,  there  exists 
such  a  surplus  of  the  unconsumed  products  of  industry  that  it 
is  necessary  to  go  to  war  to  get  the  surplus  out  of  the  way,  or 
to  find  markets  for  it. 

How  is  that  for  an  example  of  sanity? 

Most  of  the  nations  producing  more  than,  under  the  existing 
system,  their  people  are  able  to  purchase;  all  of  the  nations 
filled  with  vast  populations  that  need  these  things  and  cannot 
get  them;  and  then  war,  to  force  new  markets  and  break  in  new 
dumping-grounds ! 

There  are  more  than  5,000  lunatics  on  Ward's  Island,  New 
York,  and  the  maddest  fantasy  ever  entertained  by  the  maddest 
of  them,  seems  by  comparison  the  essence  of  mental  health. 

A  huge  unconsumed  surplus  in  the  face  of  the  destitution,  want, 
and  misery  of  the  majority  of  the  inhabitants — see  if  you  can 
match  that  for  preposterous  absurdity. 

The  things  we  need,  piled  in  a  mass  on  one  side;  and  the 
people  who  need  them,  gathered  on  the  other;  and  between  these 
the  men  who  profit  by  this  condition,  planning  war,  so  that  the 
evil  may  be  continued  and  may  not  break  down. 

This  is  the  basis  and  mainspring  and  life  of  the  existing 
system.  How  much  longer  shall  we  be  fooled  by  it? 

With  a  glad  laugh,  Storm  threw  down  the  clipping 
and  reached  for  his  tobacco. 

"How  much  longer?"  repeated  he.  "Not  long,  now 
—not  long!  Man  shall  at  last  be  free;  intellect  shall 
rule ;  gold  perish — and  my  work  be  done ! 

"Not  long,  now,  not  long — thank  God!" 


CHAPTER  XXXII 

THE    ATTACK    ON    WASHINGTON 

THE  great  white  banner  of  submission  did  not  wave 
from  the  tower  next  day,  nor  yet  the  next. 

Though  Storm  waited  patiently,  even  hopefully,  he 
saw  no  signs  of  capitulation. 

All  that  he  observed  was  a  progressive  growth  of 
license  and  anarchy,  which  even  the  now  tremendously 
strong  and  growing  social-philosophical  influence  was 
unable  to  do  more  than  check;  a  still  further  develop 
ment  of  greed  and  force  and  fraud;  a  tremendous 
efflorescence  of  the  Ash  gambling  mania,  a  general  drift 
of  the  country  and  the  Weltverein-governed  world  as  a 
whole,  toward — what? 

"Toward  some  abyss,  certainly,  whence  I  see  no 
issue,"  he  reflected.  "None,  unless  I  succeed  at  once, 
now,  and  utterly  destroy  the  idea  of  gold  in  the  minds 
of  men.  Superficially  considered,  I  seem  to  have  done 
nothing  but  botch  matters  in  an  extraordinary  fashion. 
Suicides  and  disorders,  violence  and  crime  can  certainly 
be  laid  at  my  door.  On  the  surface,  it's  disheartening, 
very! 

"But,  viewed  with  a  deeper  insight,  all  is  different. 
The  surgeon's  knife  makes  a  terrifying  wound.  Blood 
flows.  The  patient  seems  infinitely  worse  off  than  be 
fore  the  operation  began.  But  in  reality,  he's  saved. 

286 


ATTACK  ON  WASHINGTON      287 

The  cancerous  growth  is  gone.     And  when  all  is  over, 
he  faces  life,  not  death! 

"Thus  I'm  justified.  Thus  all  the  blood  and  tears 
and  anguish  of  this  time  are  made  parts  of  the  general 
upward  trend  toward  health.  Thus,  by  one  incisive 
cut,  I  can  yet  end  the  long  phlebotomy  of  war.  And 
when  the  tally  is  cast  up,  all  the  woe  and  death  that  I 
have  brought  into  the  world  won't  equal  those  of  a 
single  battle  of  a  single  capitalist  war. 

"The  last  blow  must  fall,"  said  he.  "I  will  hit,  hard, 
this  time !  Let  the  world  rave.  Let  Braunschweig  buy 
and  buy  and  buy,  if  he  will.  Nothing  will  avail,  to 
stand  against  me,  once  the  final  hoards  are  gone. 

"It  must  come  now,  at  once!  The  final,  smashing 
blow  must  be  delivered !" 

His  final  adjustments  were  made  with  a  skill  and  care 
which,  he  felt  positive,  must  bring  success. 

That  night,  John  Storm  went  to  Washington.  Dis 
guised  as  a  laborer  in  worn,  patched  clothing,  he  took 
the  midnight  express  from  the  Pennsylvania  Depot 
where  now  so  little  traffic  trickled  through  the  once- 
crowded  sluiceways  of  travel.  In  a  corner  of  the  smok 
ing  car  he  ensconced  himself  with  an  old  pipe,  for  the 
long,  weary  vigil.  None  noticed  him.  None  knew  or 
suspected  that  the  man  whose  picture  and  description 
had  long  been  printed  in  every  paper,  with  a  Blacker- 
ton  reward-offer  of  $250,000  for  his  apprehension- 
charge  not  stated — now  sat  there  with  his  hat  pulled 
down  over  his  disguised  face,  in  the  swift  steel  car. 

Thus  Storm,  master  of  the  world's  gold,  traveled  to 
the  nation's  heart,  bent  on  an  errand,  which  should 
either  free  the  world  or  end  his  own  hard  strivings. 


288         THE  GOLDEN  BLIGHT 

Well-informed  observers  state  that  the  first  outward 
sign  of  the  attack  on  Washington,  the  morning  of  Wed 
nesday,  January  first,  was  given  by  the  dulling  of  the 
golden  cap  of  the  Liberty  statue,  on  top  of  the  great 
Capitol  dome. 

The  news  of  this  portent,  running  like  flame  through 
magnesium-powder,  swiftly  brought  together  a  tremen 
dous  concourse,  that  soon  filled  the  open  areas  about 
the  huge  building,  packed  the  streets  and  parks, 
and  crammed  every  roof  and  window  that  commanded  a 
view  of  the  structure. 

Silent,  awed  now  with  a  sense  of  impending  national 
ruin,  the  people  watched  and  waited.  No  rioting  this 
day,  no  fights,  no  speculation  for  the  time  being. 

The  nation's  heart,  they  felt,  was  being  invaded  by 
the  swift-striking,  unknown,  irresistible  venom  of  the 
Blight.  And  thousands,  as  by  an  instinctive  impulse, 
bared  their  heads  in  the  raw,  chill  December  morn 
ing  air. 

In  full  sight  of  these  innumerable  watchers,  a  simple, 
rough,  grimy-handed  steeple-jack,  Barker  Fimerson 
by  name — history  will  long  take  cognizance  of  him — 
climbed  out  through  one  of  the  eastern  windows  of  that 
magnificent  dome  raised  by  the  genius  of  Major 
L'Enfant;  and  by  a  deft  use  of  slings,  ropes  and 
tackles,  scaled  the  statue  itself. 

His  inspection  was  long  and  very  careful.  After  he 
had  finished  it,  he  managed  to  scrawl  his  report  on  a 
sheet  of  paper. 

This  he  rolled  into  a  ball.  He  hurled  it  far  out 
on  to  the  stiff  breeze  blowing  at  that  hour,  eleven 
o'clock,  up  the  valley  of  the  Potomac. 


ATTACK  ON  WASHINGTON      289 

The  ball  fell,  whirling,  flickering,  in  a  vast  arc. 

Numbed  into  silence,  the  vast  assembly  watched  it 
drop.  There  was  no  crowding,  no  jostling  or  quarrel 
ing  to  snatch  at  it;  yet  many  hands  sprouted  in  air, 
where  it  fell. 

It  was  caught  by  a  postal-clerk  named  Dudley 
Bucknam. 

In  his  ague  of  eagerness,  trying  to  unroll  it,  he  tore 
the  paper  in  two. 

Somebody  grabbed  one  half. 

"Read !     Read  it !"  cried  unnumbered  voices. 

Bucknam  was  unable  to  decipher  it. 

It  had  been  written  in  such  a  cramped  attitude  that 
it  was  almost  illegible.  The  missing  part,  too,  was 
vital  to  the  meaning. 

"Here,  let  me  see !"  shouted  a  thin,  gray-whiskered 
man,  eagerly  forcing  his  way  through  the  press.  "I'm 
foreign  clerk  of  the  Dead  Letter  Office.  I  can  read 
anything — any  hand." 

Bucknam  relinquished  his  part  of  the  paper. 

"Here !"  cried  a  voice.  The  other  half  came  handed 
in  to  the  clerk. 

Now  somewhat  jostled  about,  he  nevertheless  man 
aged  to  fit  the  halves  together.  For  a  minute  he  stud 
ied.  Then  with  a  strange  and  troubled  look  upon  his 
paling  face,  he  read: 

"It's  all  off!  Liberty  has  lost  her  gold  cap.  Noth 
ing  up  here,  now,  but  gray  scale.  The  finish  is  com- 
ing!" 

As  a  whisper,  fine  and  tense,  the  news  spread  out. 
Men  dared  not  speak  aloud  at  first. 

The  whisper  strengthened  to  a  murmur;  it  spread 


290         THE  GOLDEN  BLIGHT 

faster,  louder  now;  it  became  a  vast,  confused,  incho-.- 
ate  welter  of  sound;  it  rose  to  a  roar,  a  bellow — it 
swelled  to  heaven  as  a  gigantic  cataract  of  sound! 

Before  the  steeple-jack  had  had  time  even  to  descendl 
to  the  base  of  the  heroic  statue,  three  hundred  feet  in 
mid  air,  the  news  had  flashed  through  those  massed  hun 
dreds  of  thousands,  had  been  flicked  on  to  the  wires  and! 
darted  to  every  corner  of  the  land — even  flung  across^ 
the  Atlantic: 

"The  Capitol  lias  been  attacked!  The  Statue  of 
Liberty  has  lost  her  golden  cap.  The  end  is  at  hand!"" 

Murchison,  who  for  eight  and  forty  hours  had  beeni 
in  Washington,  striving  in  vain  to  check  the  power  of 
Braunschweig,  heard  it  in  his  temporary  offices  in  the'' 
Monadnock  Building.  Heard  it,  and  peered  out  ini 
sudden  apprehension,  out  over  the  massed  thousands,, 
all  stricken  with  keen  terror  and  confusion. 

He  ordered  his  motor  and  hastened  to  the  Treasury* 
Building,  his  mind  a  welter  of  fear  and  rage,  with  the>- 
sweat  of  anguish  pearling  his  wrinkled  forehead. 

Five  minutes  later,  while  the  multitude  still  stood  1 
rooted  there,  groaning,  weeping,  praying,  many  withi 
suppliant  hands  raised  to  what  they  knew  not,  the1 
President  received  a  telegram: 

This   he  immediately  made   public,   as   being  in   the1 
nature  of  an  emergency  measure.     At  once  the  wires  of 
the  now  thoroughly  sensationalized  International  Press* 
Combine  grew  hot  with  the  message : 

At  noon,  sharp,  unless  a  white  flag  rises  over  the  War  De-- 
partment  Building,  the  final  blow  will  fall.  This  flag  must  fly  , 


ATTACK  ON  WASHINGTON      291 

as  the  symbol  of  submission  on  the  part  of  the  universal 
Weltverein  government.  I  am  now  in  Washington.  At  the 
,proper  moment  I  shall  appear.  Meanwhile,  I  warn  you  to  take 
limmediate  action.  Time  is  short.  To  save  themselves  now,  the 
powers  must  cede  at  once!  JOHN  STORM. 

This  was  the  news  that  Baker  thrust  into  Murchi- 
| son's  hands,  the  minute  they  met.  This  was  the  news 
Ithat,  hastily  'phoned,  now  brought  together  a  swift, 
!  half -defiant,  half  panic-stricken  gathering  of  the  world- 
j  financiers,  the  government  chiefs,  foreign  bankers, 
diplomatists  and  representatives  and  accredited  Welt 
verein  officials  in  the  Treasury  Building. 

Never  before  in  the  history  of  the  world  had  so  many 
eminent  men  of  such  diversity  of  race  and  tongue,  so 
hastily  met  together.  With  gold  at  stake,  they  stood 
not  for  ceremony,  precedence  or  diplomatic  poppycock. 

Braunschweig  was  there,  still  serene  and  (if  any 
thing)  more  confident  than  ever.  The  apoplectic  face 
of  Wainwright  contrasted  with  the  old-ivory  features 
of  Baron  Iwami,  now  again  decorated  with  the  Order 
of  the  Rising  Sun,  this  time  done  in  silver.  The  an 
tithesis  seemed  to  typify  the  cosmopolitan  character  of 
this,  the  strangest  gathering  of  the  System's  chiefs, 
lackeys  and  retainers  ever  known  in  the  history  of  the 
world. 

Cosmopolitan  indeed;  for  during  the  past  fortnight 
a  drift  had  been  taking  place  from  Japan  and  China, 
from  all  over  Europe,  from  South  America  and  Mex 
ico — a  drift  of  controlling  world-forces,  or,  rather,  of 
the  men  who  once  had  saddled,  bridled  and  ridden 
the  world,  but  who  now  were  merely  being  carried, 
Mazeppa-like,  to  their  doom. 


292         THE  GOLDEN  BLIGHT 

This  drift  had  set  in  strongly  toward  Washington... 
The  city,  as  capital  of  the  Weltverein,  naturally  had! 
attracted  the  flow. 

Now,   in   the   great   assembly-hall,   plutocrats   froma 
East,  from  West,  from  distant  lands  and  near,  were> 
coining   together   with   that   instinctive   rassemblement 
which  draws  the  threatened  wolf-pack  close,  or  herds  at 
fear-stricken  bunch  of  steers,  with  lowered  horns,  upon 
the  midnight  prairie. 

Strange  faces  were  those  on  which  the  morning  light! 
dulled  by  the  long  curtains  of  yellow  silk,  cast  its  soft 
ened  glow.  Strange  faces,  oddly  variant  complexions,, 
divers  tongues  and  a  weird  melange  of  uniforms,  frock  I 
coats,  decorations  (none,  however,  of  gold)  and  mili 
tary  tunics. 

Few  words  were  uttered.     Those  spoken  were  brief,1 

Men  whispered.  Gentile,  Jew,  white-skinned  Danish! 
financier  and  swart  Levantine  banker,  trust  magnate  i 
and  Rand  nabob,  now  despoiled  of  his  still  undug; 
wealth,  Chinese  bond-holder  and  Argentine  speculator.! 
Russian  grand-duke  and  British  lord — ail  these  and< 
scores  of  others,  unlike  in  everything  save  the  one  all-l 
compelling  lust  for  gold,  the  worship  of  the  power  ofe 
gold,  the  blighting  terror  of  the  loss  of  gold,  stood< 
about  uneasily;  trod  the  thick  rugs  with  catlike,  noise-1- 
less  steps ;  grouped  and  regathered  and  fell  away  fromn 
one  another,  with  hard,  bitter,  suspicious  glances  anci 
curt  sneers. 

The  air  hung  dead,  heavy,  oppressive.  Like  a  fui 
neral  chamber  the  place  was — the  funeral  of  the  hoan 
cruel,  wolfish  System,  the  burial-place  of  Gold. 

Dully,  with  muffled  cadences,  they  heard  the   awe 


ATTACK  ON  WASHINGTON      293 

and  yet  continuous  movements  of  the  massed  throngs 
outside.  It  seemed  as  though  the  world-pulse  now 
was  centered  there  in  Washington,  there  in  that  Treas 
ury  Building,  that  very  chamber ;  and  on  its  next  throb 
hung  the  destinies  of  nations. 

Sounded,  all  at  once,  the  sharp  tap-tap-tap  of  a 
gavel. 

"Gentlemen !"  exclaimed,  from  the  rostrum,  Stanley 
M.  Whitney,  presiding  officer  and  Secretary  of  the 
Treasury. 

At  sound  of  his  deep,  grave  voice,  papers  rustled; 
chairs  moved,  men  sat  down. 

Silence  fell.     The  tension  grew  acute. 

This,  on  a  larger  scale,  recalled  that  other  scene  in 
the  Sub-treasury  in  Wall  Street.  Braunschweig,  re 
membering  it,  smiled  darkly  to  himself. 

He  alone  remained  unmoved. 

He  only,  saturnine,  titanic,  calm,  watched  the  assem 
bly  with  his  broad-browed  gaze ;  and  as  he  watched,  he 
fingered  his  great  beard  and  smiled. 


CHAPTER  XXXIII 

0 

THE    FLAYING    OF    THE    WOLVES 

THEY  waited,  eager  now  for  Whitney  to  speak.  But, 
even  as  the  first  words  rose  to  his  lips,  a  stir  took  place 
at  the  rear  of  the  hall. 

It  opened,  closed  again  and  once  more  opened,  vigor 
ously. 

"Order !"  shouted  Whitney,  in  vain. 

Confused  words  floated  to  them;  then  the  sound  of 
footsteps. 

Those  who  craned  their  necks  beheld  a  page,  startled 
and  capless,  hurrying  down  the  long  aisle. 

He  reached  the  rostrum,  ran  up  the  steps,  and — in 
eager  haste — whispered  some  inaudible  words  to  Whit 
ney. 

"What?"  exclaimed  the  Secretary.  "There's  a — 
but — no,  no !  He  can't  come  in  here,  I  tell  you !  Im 
possible!" 

He  stared,  as  though  the  mere  thought  of  what  the 
page  had  told  him  reversed  all  precedents  and  outraged 
every  principle. 

Again  the  page  spoke,  eagerly.  But  Whitney  only 
shook  his  head  once  more. 

"You  go  back  and  tell  him  this  is  a  private,  official 
conference.  No  unauthorized  person  can  even  come  in, 

much  less   address   the   gathering!     And  if  he  makes 

294 


FLAYING  OF  THE  WOLVES       295 

any  trouble  or  raises  any  disturbance,  call  a  guard !" 

The  page  bowed  and  turned  to  obey;  but  already, 
there  in  the  aisle,  a  tall  and  vigorous  figure  of  a  man 
was  standing,  near  the  door. 

This  man  smiled  slightly  as  the  page,  with  a  startled 
cry,  a  leveled  index-finger,  shrilled: 

"Why,  there  he  is  now,  sir !  There !  He's  in  already !" 

Before  Whitney  could  even  adjust  his  glasses,  the 
man  was  striding  up  the  aisle  toward  the  rostrum. 

Edouard  de  Sallier,  the  French  ambassador,  started 
toward  him  with  an  upraised,  repelling  hand.  The 
stranger  only  waved  him  away. 

At  his  look,  at  sight  of  the  slow,  deep  fire  that  burned 
in  his  eyes,  the  Frenchman  paled  suddenly  and  fell 
back. 

Murchison  sprang  up,  pointing  a  tremulous  finger, 
his  face  bone-white. 

"There — there  he  is!  There — Storm!  Look— 
that's  the  man — there!  My  God!  Catch  him!  Ar 
rest  that  man!" 

The  billionaire,  overwrought,  staggered  and  sank 
gasping  into  his  chair. 

"Order!" 

"Two  hundred  and  fifty  thousand  reward  for  him — 
and  he  walks  in  here  like — like — " 

"Like  a  free  man,  at  your  service !"  said  John  Storm, 
facing  them  all. 

Wainwright  leaped  up,  with  a  blasphemy.  Bull-like, 
in  purple  rage,  he  surged  forward.  Toward  Storm  he 
ploughed  his  way,  elbowing  diplomatists  and  financiers 
right  and  left.  With  raised  fist  he  menaced. 

Murchison  screamed,  quite  overwrought : 


296          THE  GOLDEN  BLIGHT 

"Look!  That's  the  man,  there !  My  God!  Some 
body  grab  him,  quick!" 

Angry  men  of  half  a  dozen  races,  not  yet  understand 
ing,  but  furious  at  disturbance  in  this  crucial  moment, 
pulled  Wainwright  back. 

"How  the  devil  could  he  get — get  here,  without  being 
pinched?"  roared  the  copper  czar.  Strong  hands 
forced  him  to  a  chair. 

Bubbling  oaths  and  passion*  as  a  stirred-up  lobster 
bubbles  foam,  the  copper  czar  was  forcibly  suppressed. 
The  gavel,  broken  in  Whitney's  hand,  still  flailed  the 
desk. 

A  babel  rose,  a  tumult  of  many  tongues,  rendering  all 
speech  valueless.  Storm  gestured  eloquently  at  his 
rough,  patched  clothes — the  clothes  of  a  laborer — and 
from  his  pocket  drew  a  workman's  cap. 

With  a  contemptuous  smile,  he  held  this  aloft. 

Some  degree  of  silence  fell. 

"Ach!"  exclaimed  Braunschweig,  laughing.  "So  you 
have  deceived  them  all?  They  were  looking  for  a  good 
coat  and  for  linen,  eh?  I  felicitate  you,  Storm!" 

The  scientist  paused,  folded  his  arms  and  for  a  mo 
ment  looked  the  German  full  in  the  face.  Their  eyes 
met  and  struck  fire,  as  in  a  rapier-duel  of  two  souls. 

"I  thank  you,  Braunschweig!"  Storm  finally  an 
swered.  "By  heaven,  I'm  glad  to  see  you !" 

"The  compliment  is  returned,  with  interest,"  said 
the  Graf,  with  real  sincerity.  "I  truly  felicitate  you, 
John  Storm,  for  what  you  have  done.  Not  because  of 
its  motive,  but  because  of  your  infernal  intelligence!" 

"Not  second  to  your  own,"  Storm  returned.  "You 
are  a  man!  Gad,  what  a  brain!  Braunschweig,  you 


FLAYING  OF  THE  WOLVES      297 

have  seen  a  million  miles  farther  than  all  the  rest  of  the 
world  put  together.  Eeside  you,  these  purblind  money- 
grubbers  here  have  been  so  many  moles  and  bats.  You 
have  imagination  —  vision  —  insight  —  understanding. 
They  have  been  blind.  But  you — you  know! 

"Braunschweig,  even  though  you're  on  the  wrong 
side  of  this  fight,  dead,  rotten  wrong,  you're  a  man 
after  my  own  heart." 

He  thrust  out  his  hand.  The  great  Jew  clasped  it, 
warmly.  For  a  minute  the  grasp  held  tight.  Then  it 
loosened  and  fell  apart. 

The  hearers  gasped.  Yet  Braunschweig  only  smiled 
still  more  broadly. 

"I  thank  you,"  he  answered.  "The  tribute  is  worth 
having,  and  I  shall  cherish  it.  You  are  right.  I  do 
understand,  even  as  you  understand.  I  foresee,  even 
as  you  foresee — though  perhaps  in  a  different  way  and 
with  different  ambitions.  Still,  you  and  I — we  know. 
We  alone.  These  others,  here — pfui! — /" 

With  a  glance,  he  swept  them  all  in  good-humored 
contempt.  Then  his  eyes  once  more  fell  on  John  Storm. 

You  might  have  thought,  by  Braunschweig's  expres 
sion,  that  this  man  before  him,  the  most  feared,  de 
nounced  and  hated  human  being  in  the  capitalist  black 
book,  had  done  him  some  stupendous  kindness,  some  in 
calculable  benefit.  For  in  his  look  lay  genuine  respect 
and  admiration. 

Suddenly  Wainwright  erupted  again. 

"Secretary !  Hey,  Whitney !"  he  shouted.  "Get  an 
officer!  That,  there,  is  John  Storm!  Arrest  him! 
What's  the  matter,  here?  You  all  crazy,  or  what?" 

"Shhh,  you!"  boomed  the  Graf,  shaking  a  finger  at 


298          THE  GOLDEN  BLIGHT 

the  copper  czar,  as  at  a  naughty  child.  "Be  quiet, 
will  you?  This  is  now  no  time  for  arrests  and  such 
foolish  play.  John  Storm  is  above  arrest  and  beyond 
it !  He  is  a  world-figure,  man,  and  you  would  put  him 
in  a  jail,  like  a  sneak-thief  or  a — " 

"But,  damn  you— !" 

Braunschweig's  face  darkened.  An  intense  silence 
fell,  there  in  the  crowded  chamber.  All  eyes  were  on 
the  Jew. 

"Pardon  me,  what  did  you  say?"  he  queried,  slowly, 
his  accent  now  a  trifle  more  marked.  "Did  you  address 
a  remark  to  me?" 

Wainwright  measured  him,  with  an  eye  to  combat; 
but  the  Graf's  shoulders  discouraged  him.  Scarlet,  he 
sank  back  in  his  chair. 

"You  apologize,  of  course?" 

A  moment's  pause,  in  which  the  copper  czar  pal( 
again,  with  excess  of  rage.     Then  his  arrogant  eyes 
fell. 

"Yes,"  he  grunted. 

"Thank  you,"  said  Braunschweig.  "Now,  let  us 
hear  from  Mr.  Storm." 

The  scientist  confronted  them  all  smiling. 

Then,  with  another  look  about  him,  he  once  more  ad 
vanced  toward  the  rostrum. 

"Mr.  Secretary !"  exclaimed  he. 

Whitney  was  dumb.  Astonishment  and  fear  ha( 
robbed  him  of  speech. 

Storm  shot  a  quick  glance  at  him,  then  quietb 
mounted  the  richly-carpeted  steps;  his  tread  elastic, 
soundless  as  a  panther's. 

He  was  somewhat  pale.     On  his  face,  new  lines  h« 


FLAYING  OF  THE  WOLVES      299 

been  graven  by  the  soul-searching  experiences  of  the 
past  weeks. 

But,  still  strong  and  keen,  his  eyes  alert  and  slightly 
squinted  as  though  peering  at  some  complex  chemical 
reaction,  he  faced  this  crowd  of  angry  vampires;  and 
for  a  moment  looked  them  over,  calmly. 

Strangely  they  contrasted  with  him.  Strangely  all 
the  tawdry,  murder-connoting  fripperies  of  these  uni 
forms,  all  these  respectable  frock-coats,  all  these  be- 
ribboned  orders  and  decorations  clashed  with  him.  On 
the  one  hand,  the  essence  of  bondholding  wealth,  of 
scheming,  plotting,  blood-spilling  capitalism.  On  the 
other,  a  single,  rough-clad  man. 

In  the  same  old  ulster  he  had  worn  now  for  four 
years — the  very  ulster,  because  the  only  one  he  had,  in 
which  he  had  j  ourneyed  to  Englewood  on  the  first  night 
of  the  blighting — he  stood  before  them. 

No  gewgaws,  no  medals,  no  uniforms  or  decorations 
of  crowned  assassins;  no  purple  or  fine  linen  had  he. 
Yet  his  presence,  his  look,  his  hand  stilled  those  self- 
appointed  masters  and  butchers  of  men. 

Wainwright  subsided. 

Murchison,  crumpled  forward  in  a  heap,  head  hidden 
in  both  palms,  remained  motionless. 

Baker  stared,  as  though  hypnotized. 

Each  in  his  own  way,  that  great  and  polyglottic 
throng  awaited,  listening. 

Of  them  all,  only  the  great  Jew  was  at  ease. 

"Men  of  all  nations,"  began  Storm  very  slowly,  very 
gravely,  "you  rulers  and  financiers,  bankers,  dividend- 
eaters,  gold-worshipers  and  makers  of  war,  now  listen; 
for  I  am  going  to  put  some  bitter  truths  to  you. 


300          THE  GOLDEN  BLIGHT 

"You  have  all  known  my  demands,  for  some  time, 
now.  You  have  suffered,  and  you  have  made  the  world 
suffer  terribly,  as  a  result  of  your  own  folly  and  ob 
stinacy,  of  your  blind  passion  for  gold  and  power.  At 
this  last  moment  will  you  save  yourselves,  or  must  I 
strike  the  final  blow  as  well? 

"Gold !     You  have  worshiped  gold !" 

His  voice  rose  now  and  in  his  eyes  the  light  of  battle 
gleamed. 

"You,  like  Israel  straying  in  the  wilderness,  have 
bowed  and  groveled  before  the  golden  calf — and  it  will 
yet  betray  you — soon ! 

"Gold! 

"Surplus ! 

"These  have  been  your  sacred  words ;  these,  and  none 
other.  You  have  differed  and  bickered  and  quarreled 
about  everything  else,  but  never  about  the  sanctity  of 
these  two  institutions — these,  and  profits.  When  I  rose 
up  to  threaten  them,  three  of  your  number,  here,  knew 
my  plan.  Their  first  thought  was  to  kill  rne.  They 
would  have  murdered  me  in  cold  blood,  had  I  not  out 
witted  them.  And  then  you  put  a  price  on  my  head ! 
A  price  that  not  all  of  you,  together,  now  dare  try  to 
collect !  But  murder  has  been  in  your  hearts.  In 
dividual  murder,  for  profit  and  power,  just  as  you  have 
long  committed  mass-murder,  otherwise  known  as  War, 
for  the  very  selfsame  objects — for  gold,  and  profits, 
and  surplus !" 

He  paused  and  spurned  them  with  a  look  of  loathing. 
But  no  one  stirred  or  spoke.  Only  on  the  lips  of  the 
great  Jew  the  smile  broadened  a  trifle. 

"Surplus !"    cried    Storm    with    sudden    vehemence. 


FLAYING  OF  THE  WOLVES      301 

"Surplus !  It's  always  been  the  same  old  story,  for 
centuries  past.  Serfdom  was  a  surplus-squeezing  game. 
So  was  slavery.  Capitalism  is  no  different — save  that 
it's  worse,  and  bigger.  Your  Reign  of  Gold  depends 
on  surplus,  wrung  out  of  the  lives  and  bodies  of  the 
working-class,  out  of  mine  own  people. 

"This  surplus  is  to  you  the  sacred  golden  wafer,  your 
heart's  desire,  your  lodestone,  your  one  and  only  deity. 
All  creeds  are  here  and  many  races;  yet  you  all  agree 
on  gold  as  your  god ! 

"But" — and  now  Storm  took  a  different  tone — "but, 
you  surplus-lovers,  all  this  involves  foreign  markets, 
and  war.  Even  though  millions  of  honest  workers 
whose  labor  produces  this  wealth,  even  though  millions 
of  their  wives  and  children  starve  and  shiver  for  the 
use  of  the  surplus,  still,  part  of  it  must  be  shipped  out 
of  the  country — to  make  trade ! 

"So  now  we  come  to  the  use  of  the  bayonet  and  the 
Gatling  gun.  We  come  to  war ! 

•"War !  What  for?  For  profits !  For  gold !  You 
know  the  answer.  You  understand!  That  you  and 
yours  may  roll  in  gold  and  wallow  deep  in  surplus,  mil 
lions  fight  and  die;  and  perfectly  inconceivable  debt 
crushes  every  nation  on  earth. 

"Debts — national  debts — and  you  draw  dividends  on 
those,  too !  Debts,  piled  in  mountains  on  the  backs  of 
the  long-suffering  people.  This  is  another  burden  you 
and  your  infernal  system  have  laid  on  the  world. 
Debts!  The  New  York  Call  gives  the  monetary  loss 
of  the  Pan-European  war  alone  as  $118,444,000,000! 
Almost  ten  times  the  total  amount  of  cash  in  the  whole 
v-orld,  before  I  blighted  your  damned  gold! 


302          THE  GOLDEN  BLIGHT 

"Think  ot  that,  you  money-mongers,  you  gold- 
harpies  !  All  for  the  sake  of  gain !  Ridpath,  the  histo 
rian,  Tie  understood  you !"  Storm  raised  a  fist  on  high. 
"He  laid  the  scourge  of  hatred  and  of  scorn  upon  your 
callous  backs ! 

"Hear  his  words  !      Said  he: 

Reflect  for  an  hour  upon  the  appalling  aggregate;  consider 
the  pressure  of  this  intolerable  incubus;  try  to  estimate  the 
horror  of  this  hell;  weigh  the  woe  and  anguish  of  them  who  rest 
under  it ! 

All  these  thousands  of  millions  of  dollars — statesmen,  phil 
osophers,  preachers,  journalists,  mouthpieces  of  civilization,  one 
and  all  of  you,  how  do  you  like  the  exhibit?  Does  it  not  suffice? 
Who  is  going  to  pay  the  account?  The  people!  Who,  without 
lifting  a  hand,  or  turning  in  their  downy  beds,  will  gather  this 
infamous  harvest?  Plutocracy! 

He  paused  a  moment,  as  though  to  let  the  arraign 
ment  strike  home. 

Whitney,  frowning  blackly,  began  thumbing  a  pon 
derous  volume  of  statistics,  as  though  some  fatuous  idea 
had  entered  his  brain  of  overthrowing  this  damning 
accusation  with  official  figures ;  but  all  at  once  recollect 
ing  that  the  total  war-debt  of  the  world  had  recently 
passed  even  beyond  Storm's  figures,  abandoned  the  at 
tempt  and  tried  to  look  as  if  no  such  an  idea  as  disput 
ing  Storm  had  ever  possessed  him. 

"Very  interesting  figures,"  commented  Braunschweig, 
cheerfully.  "Quite  correct,  too,  though  these  data  are 
impossible  of  accurate  statement.  A  little  underesti 
mated,  perhaps;  but  that  makes  nothing.  Achl  We 
hear  the  truth,  to-day  !  Proceed !" 

"Thanks,"  answered  Storm  dryly.  "I  will.  Maybe 
I've  got  a  few  more  facts  and  figures  on  hand  that  may 


FLAYING  OF  THE  WOLVES      303 

be  useful  to  you  people,  you  sharks  that  tag  the  ship 
of  state  to  fatten  on  the  carrion  of  its  battles  and  its 
woe! 

"Sharks,  yes,  trailing  a  ship  steered  by  lunatics! 
Statesmen  you  call  yourselves,  you  people  down  there 
in  the  solemn  flunkery  of  black  broadcloth?  Ha! 
Idiots,  rather — imbeciles  and  knaves  ! 

"Knaves,  pirates,  guiding  the  state  galleon — whither? 
To  the  rocks !  Like  derelicts  the  nations,  ruled  by  you 
and  your  gang  of  polished  cutthroats,  'stagger  round 
and  round  in  a  stupid  circle,  the  statesmen  planning 
international  wholesale  butcherings,  the  working  class 
blinded  with  blood  and  sweat  and  tears !' 

"All  for  the  reign  of  gold — gold,  your  god! 

"And  you  plan  'greater  armies,  greater  navies,  then 
still  greater  armies  and  still  greater  navies,  then  still 
more  powerful  armies  and  navies ;  then  impossible  taxa 
tion,  intolerable  burdens;  then  bankruptcy!  And  now 
come  wrath,  rebellion,  revolution.  And  this  consti 
tutes  the  program  for  practically  every  "civilized"  na 
tion  in  the  world !' 

"War!  Militarism — 'the  international  political 
whirlpool.  But  now  the  maelstrom  opens,  the  chasm 
yawns;  it  spreads  wide  its  huge  jaws  for  the  capitalist 
ship  of  state !'  " 

"Damn  you!"  roared  Wainwright.  "Treason!  If 
you  had  what's  coming  to  you,  you'd  get  a  lamp-post 
and  ten  feet  of  hemp !" 

"You're  generous,"  retorted  Storm  grimly.  "Do 
you  know  what  I'd  like  to  give  you  in  return?  You, 
and  this  gang  gathered  together  here?  I'd  give  you 
all  a  prominent  position  right  on  the  firing-line  of  a 


304          THE  GOLDEN  BLIGHT 

good,  lively,  up-to-date  battle.  Maybe  you  might  learn 
a  thing  or  two  about  the  sources  of  wealth  and  markets 
and  gold — and  patriotism,  too,  and  'treason !' 

"Do  you  profit-lusting  wolves  know  anything  about 
the  practical  details  of  market-getting  and  money-mak 
ing,  via  imperialism  and  expansion?  No?  Well,  as  a 
mere  common,  ordinary  engineer,  /  do.  And  I  propose 
to  tell  you  just  a  word  about  them,  here  and  now. 

"Take  a  modern  Gatling,  for  example.  Equipped 
with  an  electric  motor,  it  will  hurl  out  three  thousand 
bullets  a  minute.  It  will  tear  a  high  board  fence  to 
pieces  in  four  minutes,  at  a  distance  of  one  mile.  How 
would  you,  King  Copper,  like  to  buck  that  proposition 
— for  gold? 

"Oh,  a  machine  gun  is  a  live-wire,  all  right  enough. 
When  you  people  howl  for  war,  and  plan  for  war,  and 
pour  out  oil  on  the  human  fighting-lust  to  bring  on  war 
— remember  that !  Don't  forget  which  end  of  the  gun 
you  mean  to  stand  at." 

Storm  paused  a  moment;  then  with  bitter  scorn 
cried : 

"What  a  place  a  battle-field  would  be  for  you,  all  youj 
prominent  citizens,  you  bankers,  financiers,  capitalists, 
senators,  lawyers,  Weltverein  officials,  captains  of  in-| 
dustry!  You  editors  of  kept  papers;  you  pulpit--! 
thumpers  howling  to  the  'God  of  Battles'  and  preachingj 
war!  A  hurricane  of  blood  and  steel!  Delightful^ 
eh?  But  there's  no  danger  any  one  of  you  will  take  aj 
chance  there,  or  on  a  dreadnaught,  or  skimming  high 
in  air  in  a  military  monoplane,  dropping  bombs  and 
getting  shot,  all  for  the  sake  of  gold. 

"Hardly!      There's    plenty    of    common    flesh    and 


FLAYING  OF  THE  WOLVES      305 

cheap,  ordinary  blood  to  be  bought  in  wholesale  lots,  at 
rock-bottom  prices.  You're  safe  enough !  The  work 
ing  class,  as  Shakespeare  said,  will  spare  you,  per 
sonally,  the  risk  of  damage. 

"  'Tut,  tut ;  good  enough  to  toss ;  food  for  powder, 
food  for  powder ;  they'll  fill  a  pit  as  well  as  better !' 

"How  many  of  you,  personally,  took  part  in  the 
Big  War,  that  cost  Europe  $4,000,000  every  hour, 
night  and  day ;  that  laid  waste  125,000  square  miles  of 
territory;  that  starved  to  death  tens  of  thousands  and 
rendered  homeless  6,000,000  women  and  children? 
How  many  of  you  went  into  the  trenches  ?  You  sneaks ! 
Not  one!" 

He  turned  to  another  page  of  his  note-book,  and 
scornfully  continued: 

"No,  you  people  never  risk  getting  into  anything 
like  the  fight  at  Dixmude  where 


"'There  were  2500  German  bodies  in  the  Yser  Canal.  Many 
of  them  were  drowned  and  others  were  bayoneted.  The  very 
water  itself  was  bloody,  while  Dixmude's  streets  were  strewn 
thick  with  the  dead.  These  ghoulish  facts  alone  give  some  idea 
of  the  savageness  of  the  fighting,  the  desperation  of  the  German 
attacks  and  the  stubbornness  of  the  Allies'  resistance.  The  night 
was  a  hell  from  dark  to  dawn.  Face  to  face  men  even  wrestled 
and  died  by  drowning  each  other  in  the  canal's  waters. 

The  Germans  were  mowed  down  with  rifle  shot,  torn  into  human 
fragments  by  shells  and  bayoneted  back,  yard  by  yard,  over 
their  own  dead  into  the  waters  of  the  canal. 

There  were  frantic  scenes,  and  the  bodies  seen  in  the  water  on 
the  next  day  gave  grim  testimony  of  this. 

About  3000  German  infantrymen  got  into  Dixmude.  They  held 
it  for  a  time,  but  with  shell  fire  and  rifle  fire  the  place  was  rid 
dled  through  and  through.  The  Germans  dashed  out  of  the 
crumbling  houses,  only  to  be  wiped  out  by  a  sirocco  of  shrapnel 
and  shot  in  the  streets.' 


306         THE  GOLDEN  BLIGHT 

"Not  one  of  you  in  all  that,  was  there?"  Storm 
flung  at  them,  with  bitter  scorn.  "No  inducement 
would  get  you  into  a  battle  where  you  might  be  smashed 
to  atoms  by  artillery  fire,  impaled  in  bayonet  charges 
or  hacked  to  pieces  with  sabers  on  bastions  composed  of 
a  hideous  mish-mash  of  corpses,  their  dead  features 
fixed  in  all  the  contortions  of  unutterable  agony. 

"Suppose  you  had  to  do  a  little  of  the  actual  kill 
ing  and  dying— for  gold?  What  then?  How  do  you 
like  this  picture  of  Sedan? 

"  'Imagine  masses  of  colored  rags  glued  together  with  blood  and 
brains,  pinned  into  strange  shapes  by  fragments  of  bones.  Con 
ceive  men's  bodies  without  legs,  and  legs  without  bodies,  heaps  of 
human  entrails  attached  to  red  and  blue  cloth,  and  disemboweled 
corpses  in  uniform;  bodies  lying  about  in  all  attitudes  with  skulls 
shattered,  faces  blown  off,  hips  smashed,  bones,  flesh,  and  gay 
clothing  all  pounded  together  as  if  brayed  in  a  mortar;  all  this 
recurring  perpetually  for  weary  hours— and  then  you  cannot, 
with  the  most  vivid  imagination,  come  up  to  the  sickening  reality 
of  that  butchery!'" 


CHAPTER    XXXIV 


AT  the  rear  of  the  room  a  sudden  disturbance  arose. 
Some  one  —  an  old,  hoary-headed  plutocrat  —  had 
fainted.  Around  him  others  pressed.  But  Storm 
paused  not. 

"Ha !"  shouted  he,  his  face  irradiate  with  wrath  and 
zeal.  "So,  then,  I'm  striking  home,  eh?  Cowards! 
Who  cannot  even  bear  to  hear  news  of  the  things  you 
do — for  gold ! 

"You  blood-sucking  profit-leeches,  you  sicken  when 
you  learn  a  little  of  the  truth  about  the  blood  you  suck, 
safely  at  home ! 

"Did  any  of  you  human  vultures  ever  see  a  real,  self- 
supporting  vulture?  A  vulture  with  at  least  enough 
decency  to  find  his  own  carrion?  If  you  should  go  to 
'glorious'  war  in  the  tropics  you  have  so  benevolently 
assimilated,  you'd  see  some,  all  right  enough.  How 
would  you,  Murchison,  like  to  have  a  vulture  pick  out 
your  eyes  so  that  some  other  millionaire  could  rake  in 
gold? 

"And  you,  Wainwright,  how  would  you  like  to  have 
been  in  some  of  those  battles  of  the  last  war,  when  the 
dead  were  so  thick  they  kept  each  other  standing  in  the 
trenches?  How  would  you,  Baker,"  and  Storm's  long 
finger  jabbed  viciously  at  the  dumb-staring  magnate, 

307 


308         THE  GOLDEN  BLIGHT 

"how  would  you  have  enjoyed  being  a  wounded  man  in 
one  of  those  ghastly  field-hospitals  where  the  surgeons 
busily  cut  off  fingers,  hands,  arms,  feet,  legs,  as  butchers 
trim  meat,  and  threw  them  into  pails  and  baskets? 
Where  they  plugged  gaping  wounds  that  welled  up  in 
stantly,  crimson,  through  the  plugs?  Where  straining 
bandages  ceased,  in  a  moment,  to  become  white? 
Where  the  smell  of  fresh,  warm  blood  was  thick  on  the 
air? 

"Imagine  Baron  Iwami,  here,  lying  wounded  in  some 
remote  war-swept  village,  amid  human  corpses  and  the 
bodies  of  cows,  horses  and  pigs,  while — as  happened 
in  the  last  war — some  starving  swine  devours  a  dead 
soldier,  once  some  maiden's  lover! 

"Imagine  Campbell,  there,  up  to  his  knees  in  blood, 
in  a  trench,  as  many  soldiers  have  reported  being.  Or 
fighting  and  marching  for  five  days  without  food  or 
water,  charging  bayonets  by  day,  and  shivering  in 
bloody  trenches  by  night,  as  one  Essex  regiment  did, 
till  their  cheeks  were  like  sunken  leather  and  they  were 
black  with  blood  and  choked  with  mud !  Splendid  War, 
indeed ;  glorious,  sublime — and  profitable ! 

"Imagine  Whitman  lying  wounded  on  a  road,  among 
so  many  dead  and  wounded  that  the  wheels  of  passing 
military  auto-trucks  skidded  in  the  blood,  as  happened 
more  than  once  in  the  Big  War.  Just  fancy  Graf 
Braunschweig  fighting  in  a  wood  where  'strips  of  flesh, 
legs,  arms  and  even  heads  were  lodged  in  the  branches 
of  trees,  while  heaps  of  mutilated  bodies  lay  on  the 
ground,'  or  in  a  field  covered  with  fragments  of  flesh 
and  bone,  and  oozy  with  blood ! 

"No,  the  Graf  would  certainly  never  risk  being  in  any 


COUNTERPLAY  309 

such   situation.     Neither   would   any   of   you   jackals. 
At  the  time  all  that  was  happening,  you  were  speculat 
ing  in  munitions,  war-ships  and  bonds,  or  cleaning  up 
fortunes  supplying  knock-down  coffins,  which  followed 
the  German  army  in  trainload  lots — coffins  that  came 
i  back  so  full  of  mutilated  corpses  that,  as  also  from 
*  the  hospital  trains,  blood  dripped  through  the  floor- 
|  boards  of  the  cars  and  reddened  the  tracks  for  many 
1  miles. 

"I  remember  a  letter  written  to  Thomas  H.  Ince,  the 
great  photo-play  producer,  by  a  man  who  signed  him- 
self  'A  Plain  British  Soldier' — a  letter  commending 
Ince's  vast  anti-war  picture,  'Civilization.'  In  that  let 
ter  the  man  who  had  known  war  at  first-hand  said : 

"  'Picture  the  stench  of  your  comrades  rotting  in  death  by  your 
side,  as  you  are  bespattered  by  the  hot  blood  of  others  freshly 
butchered  in  all  the  blistering  heat  and  volcanic  thunder  of 
shrieking  shells  and  belching  guns!  Then,  in  the  black  and 
deadlier  silence  of  night,  while  you  lie  half  buried  in  muddy, 
bloody  slime,  hour  after  hour,  waiting  for  Hell's  fire  to  burst 
out  from  earth  and  sky  again,  you  feel  the  maggots  that  are 
devouring  in  their  millions  the  men  you  have  lived  and  fought 
by,  crawling  over  your  own  living  carcass  as  your  brain  reels  in 
delirium — oh  God!  you  can't  think  of  it!' 

"Fine,  isn't  it?     Ah,  glorious! 

"Modern  war!  Infinite  murder,  bereavement,  de 
struction,  rape,  torment,  horror — that  you  may  wax 
more  sleek  and  fat,  or  that  your  monarchs  may  wear 
another  ribbon  on  their  coats  or  count  another  prov 
ince  in  their  dominions!  Soldiers  in  trenches  eating 
bread  soaked  crimson  with  the  blood  of  their  comrades. 
Wrecked  homes,  burned  cities,  ruined  arts  and  sciences, 
numbed  education,  brutality  glorified  and  every  evil 


310         THE  GOLDEN  BLIGHT 

thing  nurtured  to  ferocious  triumph !  The  whole  world 
one  great,  bleeding,  groaning  pit  of  woe!  Made  so 
by  whom  ?  By  you,  and  you,  and  you ! 

"Bah !     You  swine !     You  cowards !" 

He  snapped  his  fingers  with  bitter  contempt.  His 
face  drew  into  a  sneer  so  savage,  so  hateful,  that  you 
could  scarcely  have  recognized  the  man. 

"You  jackals!"  he  flung  at  them.  "Your  class  in 
stincts  haven't  changed  one  jot  since  Wendell  Phillips' 
time,  when  he  exclaimed  in  anger  at  your  traitorous 
schemes:  'The  time  will  yet  come  in  America  when  we 
shall  have  to  hang  the  bankers  !'  They  haven't  changed 
since  the  great  Lincoln  himself — he  who  tried  to  bear 
malice  to  none,  charity  to  all — was  forced  by  your  in 
fernal  looting  of  the  nation's  wealth,  by  your  detest 
able  Civil  War  and  railroad  robberies,  which  bled  the 
country  nigh  to  death — was  forced,  I  say,  to  cry  in 
bitter  rage  that  the  gold-manipulators  'ought  to  have 
their  devilish  heads  shot  off !' 

"Words  like  these,  think!  from  two  of  the  noblest, 
most  magnanimous  souls  that  ever  breathed  the  air  of 
heaven!  Do  you  hear  them?  Do  you  understand? 

"No,  impossible.  You  never  can.  You  have  always 
hypocritically  'deplored'  war,  even  while  making  war, 
with  crocodile  tears.  Before  the  Big  War,  you  claimed 
war  was  impossible,  for  a  score  of  reasons — but  you 
made  war,  just  the  same.  For  profits  beckoned,  beck 
oned  as  never  before. 

"You  people  never  reform.  The  only  way  to  handle 
you  is  to  wipe  you  out.  If  you  were  free  from  my 
grip,  to-day,  and  some  imminent  war  offered  you  an 
other  penny  or  another  foot  of  land,  you  would  still 


COUNTERPLAY  311 

howl  for  war,  let  the  other  man  fight  and  suffer  and 
die,  and  play  the  same  old  sickening  game !" 

Storm  paused  for  breath,  and  looked  about  him  with 
contempt  and  anger.  All  eyes  were  fixed  on  him,  all 
lips  silent.  None  now  tried  to  speak,  to  interrupt,  to 
gibe.  Armed  only  with  the  lash  of  his  invective,  like 
a  lion-tamer  with  a  scourge,  he  stood  before  them  all, 
and  kept  them  mute.  And  for  a  moment,  silence  held 
the  room. 

"Civilization  has  been  crushed  by  gold.  Civilization? 
What  do  you  know  or  care  for  that?"  he  queried,  bit 
terly.  "Its  true  test — the  state  in  which  each  man 
most  fully  realizes  his  social  duty  and  most  adequately 
performs  it — has  been  smeared  away,  blurred,  destroyed 
by  gold. 

"Reason  has  abdicated.  Intelligence  is  enslaved. 
No  longer  does  truth  rule  the  affairs  of  men,  or  right 
prevail,  or  even  common  decency  get  so  much  as  a  hear 
ing.  The  world  lies  stewing,  festering,  rotting  in  mis 
ery  and  vice  and  crime — because  of  gold ! 

"Gold!  I  symbolize  capitalism  thus,  because  your 
minds  are  too  narrow,  bigoted,  stupid,  and  atrophied  to 
understand  a  larger  term. 

"Just  as  by  war  I  have  meant  all  the  abuses  of  the 
System — just  as  I  have  called  the  system  'war,'  so  that 
your  minds,  incapable  of  generalization,  could  grasp 
the  concrete  fact,  so  by  gold  I  mean  the  power  of  ex 
ploitation,  the  rule  of  class  over  class,  the  heartless, 
bitter,  grinding  wage  system,  the  making  of  profits  ou! 
of  human  flesh  and  blood. 

"By  gold  I  mean  capitalism,  the  beast  that  herds  mil 
lions  of  children  to  the  mine,  the  mill,  the  coal-breaker. 


312         THE  GOLDEN  BLIGHT 

the  foul  and  noisome  factory.  I  mean  the  profit-lust 
that  pants  for  war ;  that  poisons  food  and  drink  for  an 
extra  penny  of  foul  gain.  I  mean  the  chronic  crime  of 
unemployment,  of  starvation  in  a  land  of  plenty.  I 
mean  government  by  injunction  and  by  gunmen;  the 
slugging,  shooting  and  burning  of  strikers — yes,  even 
of  their  women  and  children;  the  labor-sweating  that 
drives  each  year  a  hundred  thousand  girls  forth — out 
of  the  smugly-owned  department-stores — such  as  vou 
own,  or  you,  out  on  to  the  street,  to  sell  themselves  for 
bread ! 

"I  mean  the  greed  that  dries  the  milk  in  the  working 
class  mother's  breast ;  that  each  year  crushes  and  man 
gles  half  a  million  workmen  in  this  land  alone;  that 
owns  and  operates  rotten  railroads  and  hurls  thousands 
of  victims  to  death,  year  by  year — because  there's  divi 
dends  to  win! 

"I  mean  capitalism!  All  that  is  wrong,  criminal, 
ugly,  base,  hateful,  vile,  low!  All  that  breeds  disease 
and  death,  all  that  is  antithetical  to  truth,  strength, 
beauty,  light,  purity,  intelligence ! 

"Oh,  generation  of  vipers  !  Your  day  is  come !  Your 
System  crumbles,  even  now;  and  reason  shall  yet  rule! 

"Reason — intelligence — these  shall  be  the  watch 
words,  the  touchstones  of  the  future  state. 

"Soon  the  truth  shall  be  seen  and  known  by  all  men, 
that  at  the  bottom  of  all  evil,  of  all  crime  and  sorrow, 
all  pain  and  wrong  and  woe,  lie  ignorance  and  greed. 

"That  only  as  the  light  of  reason  shines,  so  can  the 
world  forge  ahead  to  newer,  better  things.  That  only 
as  false  standards  crumble  to  'the  immutable  dust,'  can 
humanity  stand  erect  and  face  the  east  and  smile. 


COUNTEBPLAY  313 

"Then,  instead  of  men  like  you  and  you  and  you, 
sitting  here  as  the  representatives  of  power,  full-fed  and 
fat  and  stupid,  gorged  and  bloated  with  your  own  dull 
inanity ;  instead  of  flunkeys  and  incompetents  to  repre 
sent  this  land  abroad;  instead  of  genius  huddled  starv 
ing  in  the  attic,  crass  dullness  in  the  palace  plethoric 
with  unearned  luxury — the  product  of  others'  toil — all 
shall  be  otherwise. 

"No  more  shall  the  painted,  pampered  mistress  of  the 
millionaire — brainless,  smirking  and  vicious — loll  in 
her  touring-car  and  fondle  her  costly  Pomeranian  on 
Fifth  Avenue ;  while  some  beautiful,  brave,  keen-witted, 
pure-hearted  and  intelligent  girl  works  her  white  fin 
gers  to  the  bone  all  day,  then  sits  poring  over  books  till 
early  morning,  trying  to  learn,  to  grow — striving  to 
conquer  poverty  and  amass  wisdom  at  the  same  time. 

"But  all  shall  be  different.  A  kinder  and  a  saner 
world  shall  come  to  birth,  a  world  wherein  shall  be  no 
misery,  no  war,  no  poverty,  woe,  strife,  creeds,  oppres 
sion,  tears. 

"Even  as  I  have  crumbled  the  golden  cap  of  the  figure 
of  Liberty  to  dross  and  ashes,  so  shall  I  forever  destroy 
the  golden  oppression  which  until  now  has  weighed  on 
Liberty  itself. 

"All  shall  be  changed;  all  shall  be  'better  than  well.' 
Labor  shall  yet  reap  its  full  reward.  Man  shall  at  last 
be  free.  The  world-chains  shall  be  shattered,  and  the 
human  race  acknowledge  its  fraternity,  know  its  death 
less  right  to  truth,  and  by  the  flame  of  the  unquench 
able  sun  of  inspiration  look  up,  clear-eyed,  to  the  vast 
arch  of  life  set  free !" 

He  ceased,  and  with  a  long,  deep  breath  gazed  at  the 


314          THE  GOLDEN  BLIGHT 

assembly  there  before  him.  Then  he  continued  in  an 
other  tone : 

"All  this  shall  be  done,  and  soon.  For  a  brief  mo 
ment  yet,  gold  still  rules  men's  minds.  Gold! 

"Yet,  mark  you  this,  you  sleek  hyenas — to-day  the 
reckoning  comes.  To-day,  at  noon,  unless  you  all  ca 
pitulate  to  me,  the  final  blow  will  fall  on  you  and  on 
your  war-hoards. 

"At  twelve  your  power  ceases.  My  demands  you  al 
ready  know.  Unless  you  cede  to  them  and  take  imme 
diate  steps  forever  to  abolish  war,  the  values  you  have 
bowed  before  and  worshiped  will  become  dross  and 
ashes.  You  must  yield,  or  witness  the  degradation  of 
capital,  of  exploitation,  of  surplus,  of  all  that  you  hold 
dear! 

"Intellect  must  rule,  humanity  triumph,  war  cease, 
the  reign  of  gold  forever  perish !" 

He  stopped,  and  for  a  long,  silent  minute  fixed  his 
gaze  upon  them. 

No  man  stretched  out  a  hand  to  stop  him;  no  man 
spoke. 

Slowly  and  with  a  kind  of  impersonal  abstraction  he 
walked  down  the  long  aisle. 

Unmolested,  he  reached  the  exit. 

He  turned,  swept  them  all  with  his  gaze,  and  stood  a 
moment  with  a  brooding,  scornful  look  upon  his  face. 
They  thought  perhaps  he  might  hurl  some  parting  word 
at  them,  some  final  and  excoriating  denunciation;  but 
no  word  came. 

John  Storm  had  said  his  say.  In  silence  now  he 
pushed  the  swinging  leather-covered  doors — and  was 
gone,  in  those  worn  and  patched  clothes,  gone  with 


COUNTERPLAY  315 

that  shabby  cap  clutched  tight  in  his  big  hand. 
Out  from  their  presence  passed  this  scorching  breath 
of  the  world's  toilers ;  and  for  a  little  while,  was  silence. 

Then  suddenly,  Braunschweig  laughed. 

"Ach,  jar  quoth  he.  "It  hurts,  eh?  The  truth  is 
painful?  For  it  is  the  truth,  gentlemen,  and  nothing 
else.  An  intelligent  young  man — very.  And  I  like 
him,  even  though  you  do  not.  Perhaps  for  that  very 
reason,  I  like  him  better.  We  might  be  friends,  he  and 
I,  yet.  A  big  man,  that,  of  great  insight  and  power. 

"So  intelligent  a  young  man — so  entertaining,  is  he 
not?  But  I  regret  that  he  is  mistaken.  Let  me  tell 
you  now,  gentlemen,"  and  he  laughed  again,  a  hard, 
mirthless  laugh  that  made  the  flesh  crawl,  "I  have  all 
this  foreseen.  And  something  has  happened  already, 
which  I  am  sure  our  friend  has  not  anticipated." 

A  wondering  murmur  rose,  in  the  great  room. 

The  financiers,  officials,  scientists  and  eminent  men 
of  arms,  recovering  now  a  little  from  their  shame  and 
stultified  abashment,  shifted  to  see  the  great  Jew  and 
to  draw  a  little  nearer.  Silent,  yet,  was  Stanley  Whit 
ney  on  the  rostrum;  silent  was  Murchison;  silent  all 
save  Braunschweig,  who  stood  there  smiling  at  them, 
still,  as  though  perhaps  he,  bitterly  as  many  hated  him, 
might  yet  lead  the  way  for  their  salvation. 

He  made  no  haste  to  speak ;  but,  slowly  pondering  his 
words,  remarked  with  great  deliberation,  after  an  ap 
preciable  pause  : 

"Our  friend,  I  take  it,  has  so  arranged  his  machine 
as  it  will  to-day  at  noon  strike  the  remaining  national 
hoards  in  different  lands  far  away.  Also  here. 

"Let  him  dissolve  even  these  war-hoards,  the  last  gold 


316         THE  GOLDEN  BLIGHT 

in  the  world,  if  he  will.  It  makes  nothing.  One  thing 
he  has  not  known,  understood  or  taken  into  account — 
a  thing  that  I,  almost  from  the  beginning,  have  known 
and  acted  on.  A  thing  you,  too,  have  been  as  ignorant 
of  as  he. 

"My  confreres,  it  is  this — and  now  that  it  is  an 
accomplished  fact,  I  have  no  hesitancy  to  speak  it  to 
you.  It  is — " 

"For  God's  sake,  what?"  cried  the  billionaire,  his  face 
aflame  with  hate  and  eagerness.  "Have  you  found 
some  way  to  beat  that  hell-hound?  If  so,  by  the  Eter 
nal,  the  whole  world  ought  to  belong  to  you !  Go  on — 
let's  have  it !  Quick !" 


CHAPTER    XXXV 

THE    GOLD    RETURNS 

BRAUNSCHWEIG  laughed. 

"I  thank  you,  sir,"  said  he.  "The  vorld?  I  do  not 
rant  it.  I  vant  only  the  gold-ash,  all  the  gold-ash  that 
iss  left  now.  And  this,  my  friends,  is  vat  I  haf  already 
got,  at  present.  To  the  best  off  my  knowledge,  every 
ounce  off  gold  and  off  gold-ash  in  the  entire  vorld  iss 
now  either  mine,  or  I  haf  an  option  on  it.  I  own  it 
all!" 

Into  his  voice  crept  a  strong  Germanic  accent.  The 
excitement  that  now  was  gaining  on  him  showed  in  his 
deep-set  eyes  and  breaking  speech. 

"All !  All !"  cried  Braunschweig.  "The  gold  off  der 
whole  vorld  iss  mine !" 

He  leaned  forward,  clutching  with  both  hands  at 
these  men,  as  though  he  held  them  all  by  the  throat. 
He  stammered,  gasped,  fought  for  words  and  found 
none. 

"Gold!    All,  all  der  gold!"  he  gasped. 

A  financier  at  the  back  of  the  room  cried  out  some 
quick,  unintelligible  thing. 

Wainwright,  leaning  over  to  Baker,  swore  hotly 
under  his  breath. 

"The  damned  Jew!"  he  snarled.  "He's  got  some 
thing  up  his  sleeve,  that's  sure.  It's  a  big  game  he's 

317 


318          THE  GOLDEN  BLIGHT 

playing,  you  bet,  or  he  wouldn't  be  playing  it.  What 
the  devil  can  it  be?" 

"We'll  know,  soon  enough !" 

"Bet  your  neck !  But  whatever  it  is,  we've  certainly 
let  the  Heiny  beat  us  to  it,  after  all !  I'd  like  to  wring 
his  hellish  neck  for  him !" 

"Wring  it?"  replied  Baker.  "Why  not?  Wait! 
This  game's  not  through  yet !" 

"All — all  der  gold !"  again  cried  Braunschweig. 
"Und  mit  dis  gold,  I  haf  you  all,  efery  one,  in  my 
power,  ab-so-lutely !" 

Groans,  murmurs,  curses  and  fervid  execrations,  now 
scantily  veiled  by  the  exigencies  of  polite  society,  droned 
through  the  hall. 

That  they,  all  these  financiers  and  mighty  ones  of 
the  gold  rule  now  instinctively  felt  themselves  fore 
stalled,  tricked,  outwitted,  done — this  maddened  these 
dollar  patriots  as  blood  a  tiger. 

But  Braunschweig  paid  no  heed.  He  was  struggling 
with  his  own  excitement,  striving  to  dominate  himself 
and  calm  the  outburst  that  had  robbed  him  of  his  prided 
English  accent.  A  moment  he  kept  silence,  then  spoke 
again : 

"Pardon  me,  gentlemen;  I  apologize  for  relapsing 
into  such  forms  of  speech.  The  stress — that  explains 
it.  At  such  times,  I  cannot  help  a  little  reverting  to 
the  dialect.  But  I  am  calm  now.  I  am  myself. 

"Yes,  gentlemen,  when  I  perceived  the  inevitable,  I 
prepared  for  it.  I  did  not  await  the  last  blow.  Un 
known  to  you  all,  I  have  already  negotiated  with  all  the 
governments  in  the  world,  making  them  advantageous 
offers  for  their  war-hoards — in  silver,  of  course. 


THE  GOLD  RETURNS  319 

"Governments  and  nabobs  alike,  occidental  and  ori 
ental,  they  have  all  secretly  accepted,  after  a  certain 
amount  of  negotiation  by  code.  It  was  not  really  so 
difficult  a  task  as  you  might  think,  gentlemen,  consider 
ing  that  I  have  so  many  thousands  of  agents  in  all  parts 
of  the  world,  eh?  No,  not  so  insuperably  difficult. 

"The  last  government  to  sell  out  was  this  one,  the 
United  States.  Achl  you  are  hard  men  to  negotiate 
with,  you  Americans — but  prudent,  too,  when  you  see 
ruin  in  the  face  staring  you !  Yes,  at  last  I  succeeded 
to  buy  even  the  Treasury  surplus.  And  I  alone  re 
served  the  right  to  announce  that  fact. 

An  interesting  process  the  gold  collection  was,  with 
some  picturesque  features,  yes !  For  example,  the  last 
private  individual  to  sell  out  to  me,  in  any  considerable 
quantity,  was  a  Malay  pirate  named  Palembang.  Only 
;four  days  ago  he  sailed  in  to  Singapore,  down  the 
iStraits  of  Malacca,  mad  with  panic,  insane  with  it,  gen 
tlemen — terrified  out  of  his  brown  skin. 

"Devils,  he  said,  had  attacked  his  junk  and  had 
Iturned  all  his  Siamese  gold,  looted  from  the  coast  vil- 
jlages,  into  a  kind  of  whitish  dust — devil-dust,  which  he 
jwould  have  thrown  overboard,  at  once,  only  neither  he 
nor  any  man  of  his  crew  dared  lay  a  finger  to  the  stuff. 

"My  Singapore  agent  immediately  confirmed  his  ter- 
or,  convinced  him  the  ashes  were  poisonous,  and  kindly 
;ook  them  off  his  hands,  for  a  cash  consideration  of 
some  $12,000,  silver,  to  be  paid  him  by  the  pirate.     In 
formed  of  this  by  cable,  I  allowed  my  agent  to  keep  the 

ver,  and  directed  him  to  forward  the  ash  to  Bombay, 
here  I  have  a  large  repository.     A  unique  case,  gentle- 

n — to  have  ash  given  away,  with  a  handsome  bonus 


320         THE  GOLDEN  BLIGHT 

beside!  Incidentally,  the  government  of  Siam  has  al 
ready  condemned  Palembang  to  death — by  being  trod 
den  on  by  the  royal  white  elephants,  in  the  usual  man 
ner — but  this  is  a  mere  detail,  unworthy  of  notice. 

"All  I  wish  to  point  out  is  the  fact  that,  by  one  means  I 
or  another,  I  have  already  bought  in  the  total  and  coin-  j 
plete  gold  supply  and  ash  supply  of  the  entire  world  ;j 
that  the  remaining  governmental  war-hoards  are  not  I 
now  where   our  friend   Storm — ach   Himmel!   so   very! 
intelligent,  is  he  not? — thinks  they  are;  that  his  attack! 
will    consequently   miss   fire ;    and   that,    at   this    very 
moment,  gentlemen,  practically  the  whole  available  ash 
of  the  world  is  now  located — " 

"Where?  Where?"  burst  out  Murchison.  "You're 
going  to  euchre  him,  yet?  You're  going  to  trim  that 
devil?  Let  me  in  on  that  game,  Braunschweig,  and  by; 
heaven!  all  I  have  is  at  your  disposal!  Where,  in; 
God's  name,  where's  that  ash?" 

"Here!  Right  below  us,  gentlemen,"  answered  the 
great  Jew,  pointing  downward.  "In  the  vaults  imme-j 
diately  under  our  feet!" 

Silence  greeted  his  announcement ;  the  silence  of  utter, } 
stunned  amazement. 

Only  Whitney,  Secretary  of  the  Treasury,  seemed 
unmoved,  for  only  he  had  known  the  secret. 

On  every  face  the  thought  was  painted,  the  pre-1 
science  clear,  that  now  they  all  (and  the  world,  too)< 
stood  on  the  brink  of  some  vast,  till  then  unforeseen,] 
incalculable  change,  some  overturn,  some  breaking  ofj 
the  social  integument — an  issuing  into  new  and  other: 
things,  whence  there  could  be  no  turning  back. 

That  all  the  gold  or  gold-ash  in  the  entire  world  had 


THE  GOLD  RETURNS  321 

at  last  been  collected  by  one  supremely  powerful  and 
daring  man,  collected  and  stored  in  one  titanic,  mon 
strous  hoard — this  concept  was  too  huge,  too  cosmi- 
cally  overpowering,  to  take  instant  root  even  in  those 
minds  used  to  thinking  in  terms  of  millions. 

So,  for  a  moment,  no  one  uttered  any  word;  and 
through  the  vast  and  silent  hall  even  the  ticking  of  the 
broad-faced  onyx  clock  over  the  rostrum  sounded  au 
dibly. 

From  without  rose  the  murmur  and  hum  of  the  gi 
gantic,  awed,  slow-moving  multitude  which  now  blocked 
alley,  street  and  square,  filled  park  and  terrace,  black 
ened  wall  and  roof,  and  jammed  each  window  whence 
by  any  possibility  the  Treasury  building  could  be 
seen. 

"The  white  flag — will  it  go  up?  Will  they  surren 
der?  This  question  was  in  every  mouth,  this  thought 
filled  every  soul.  Tense,  but  with  a  kind  of  apathetic 
calm,  the  people  waited.  And  over  the  wires,  cleared  to 
bear  the  news,  the  nation  listened  too,  and  the  whole 
world. 

Save  for  the  sprinkling  of  red  banners  here  and  there, 
and  the  exhortations  of  "soap-boxes"  striving  even  at 
the  last  moment  to  spread  the  truth  and  show  the  way 
to  peace  and  a  new  order  of  things,  whatever  might 
arise,  there  seemed  but  little  energy  or  purpose  in  that 
press. 

Men  were  waiting,  that  was  all ;  waiting  for  midday, 
for  the  anticipated  final  blow.  After  that,  what?  No 
body  seemed  to  know,  or  care — nobody  save  the  ex- 
horters,  around  whose  improvised  lecture-platforms 
thicker  nuclei  had  gathered. 


322          THE  GOLDEN  BLIGHT 

Braunschweig,  meanwhile,  had  almost  finished  speak 
ing. 

"Now,  gentlemen,  now  that  you  know  the  situation,  I 
make  you  an  offer.  As  a  matter  of  interest  to  you,  I 
will — if  you  like — show  you  this  hoard  of  mine. 

"Certain  facts,  known  to  me  by  the  aid  of  the  truly 
most  highly  superior  German  science,  facts  evidently 
unknown  to  you,  make  it  positive  that  to-day  at  noon 
certain  developments  will  take  place,  of  a  most  extraor 
dinary  character.  Ach,  ja,  quite  so!  And,  if  you 
choose,  you  may  witness  them. 

"Shall  we  visit,  now,  the  vaults?  After  that,  per 
haps,  we  shall  perhaps  be  better  able  to  answer  the  de 
mands  of  Mr.  John  Storm  in  a  satisfactory  manner. 
And  he  should  have  such  an  answer!  Such  an  intelli 
gent  young  man,  so  well-informed  and  energetic !" 

He  gestured  toward  the  door. 

"Shall  we  go,  gentlemen?  Yes?  Good!  So  be  it! 
Permit  me,  then,  to  extend  to  you  the  freedom  of  my 
own  private  vaults,  leased  from  your  government.  Shall 
I  now  have  the  honor  of  showing  you  all  the  way?" 

Silent,  amazed,  wholly  unable  as  yet  to  correlate  their 
thoughts  or  voice  their  profound  astonishment,  the  dis 
tinguished  company  followed  him. 

He,  now,  in  his  own  person,  walked  visibly  there  be 
fore  them  as  the  embodiment,  the  summing-up,  the  su 
preme  climactic  personality  of  capitalism,  the  rule  of 
gold. 

For,  since  the  System  itself  had  developed,  toward 
the  beginning  of  the  nineteenth  century,  never  yet  had 
one  individual  gathered  to  himself  so  preponderatingly 
vast  a  majority  of  the  world's  wealth. 


THE  GOLD  RETURNS  323 

Even  Murchison  himself,  still  many  times  a  million 
aire  though  he  was,  felt  poor  and  mean  and  weak  by 
contrast  with  this  overwhelming,  physically  huge  and 
financially  inconceivably  vast  figure  of  the  mighty  Jew, 
who  now,  standing  at  the  open  tool-steel  door  of  the 
subterranean  vaults,  waited  for  his  one-time  competi 
tors  and  rivals,  his  present  inferiors  and  guests,  to 
enter. 

Despite  the  many  red-glowing  incandescents  that 
burned  beneath  the  groined  vaults  and  down  the  long, 
dim  corridors,  still  a  half-darkness  shrouded  the  place. 

The  footsteps  of  the  financiers  and  the  officials 
sounded  dull  and  hollow  on  that  steel  and  concrete  floor ; 
their  voices  murmured  eerily,  with  strangely  sibilant  re- 
echoings. 

Awed,  despite  themselves,  overwhelmed  by  the  vast 
tiers  and  ranges  of  buckskin  or  of  heavy  yellow  canvas 
bags  on  every  hand,  that  stretched  away  down  the 
gloomy,  dim-lit  corridors,  they  grouped  uneasily, 
peered,  shifted  their  fine-shod  feet,  and  pried  about  with 
mingled  envy,  curiosity  and  impotent  malice. 

A  door  clanged  metallically.  Then  Braunschweig 
appeared  among  them,  pocketing  a  key.  He  began  to 
speak. 

"Gentlemen,"  said  he,  his  voice  low  and  carefully 
modulated,  "you  now  see  before  you  practically  the  en 
tire  residue  of  what  once  was  the  world's  gold.  Some 
of  the  final  hoards  have  not  yet  arrived,  but  at  all 
event,  not  one  of  them  is  now  where  Mr.  Storm  believes. 
We  do  not  need  to  consider  them ;  enough  is  now  here, 
as  gold  or  as  ash,  so  that  we  may  say  a  vast  majority  of 
the  entire  world's  material  now  lies  in  these  vaults. 


324         THE  GOLDEN  BLIGHT 

"You  have  wondered,  perhaps — you  must  have,  I  am 
sure — why  I,  a  man  reputed  somewhat  keen  in  such 
matters,  should  have  exchanged  silver  for  ashes,  dis 
bursed  carloads,  shiploads,  mountains  of  silver,  for 
what  seems  mere  dross,  eh? 

"Well,  let  me  tell  you;  now  that  my  master-coup  is 
a  fait  accompli;  now  that  practically  all  is  over,  save 
reaping  the  harvest.  Let  me  explain !" 

He  crossed  his  huge  arms,  sank  his  Mosaic  beard  a 
moment  on  his  breast,  and  from  beneath  leonine  brows 
peered  at  this  Gentile  and  this  pagan  gathering,  there 
before  him  in  the  dim,  silent,  thick-walled,  impregnable 
last  redoubt  of  capitalism. 

"Let  me  tell  you  now,  my  friends !  It  is  so  astonish 
ingly  simple — when  you  understand.  At  once,  at  the 
very  first  news  of  the  Blight,  I  had  my  idea.  Immedi 
ately  I  consulted  Professor  Glanzer,  of  Bucharest,  and 
Mme.  Curie,  in  Paris.  By  telegram,  instantly.  I  also 
took  council  with  Professor  Heinzmann,  of  my  private 
laboratories  at  Diisseldorf. 

"They  differed  as  to  details,  but  all  agreed  as  to  one 
essential  fact.  Not  that  I  let  any  of  them  know  all  of 
what  I  wanted  to  learn — acini  no  indeed!  But  by  cor 
relating  their  answers,  gentlemen,  I  discovered  the 
truth." 

"What  truth,  for  heaven's  sake?  What  truth?" 
rasped  Murchison,  haggard  and  wan. 

"I  learned  that  gold  is  truly  indestructible.  That 
even  though  certain  radio-active  forces  may  temporar 
ily  disintegrate  it,  yet  reintegration  must  eventually 
follow.  That,  once  the  destructive  power  is  past,  so 
comes  the  gold  back,  as  before.  That — " 


THE  GOLD  RETURNS  325 

A  cry,  harsh  and  piercing,  interrupted  him.  It  was 
Murchison's  voice. 

"Do  you  mean  to  say,"  shouted  he,  "that  you've 
beaten  us  all  to  it?  Done  us  all?  Left  us  all  holding 
the  sack,  while  you,  you  have  grabbed  the  bait?" 

"Pray  do  not  interrupt,"  said  the  great  Jew,  frown 
ing.  "This  is  now  a  scientific  matter,  and  also,  hard 
words  can  change  nothing.  I  learned,  in  short,  that 
whatever  this  Mr.  Storm  might  do,  his  machine  would 
by  a  certain  date  absolutely  exhaust  the  total  cosmic 
supply  of  the  one  particular  radio-active  force  or  Zeta- 
ray,  producing  this  effect. 

"After  that,  I  knew  reintegration  would  inevitably  at 
once  set  in.  The  gold  would  return — it  could  not  help 
returning!  All  I  needed  to  do  was  ascertain  the  date 
exactly  on  which  the  process  would  reverse.  This — " 

"Fool !  Fool  that  I  was !"  suddenly  cried  a  loud 
voice.  "I  might  have  known!" 

It  was  Professor  Jamieson,  of  Stamford  University 
— far  and  away  the  leading  metallurgist  of  the  New 
World.  Now,  clutching  his  brows,  he  ground  his  teeth 
with  rage. 

"God!"  he  gritted.  "The  world  was  in  my  hand — • 
and  it  escaped  me !" 

"The  exact  date,"  continued  Braunschweig,  "was  all 
I  needed  in  order  to  make  one  universal  sweep — " 

Another  disturbance  in  the  group  huddled  there 
under  the  groined  arches  dim  and  dusty,  broke  his 
discourse.  Sounds  of  a  scuffle,  of  angry  words,  of 
oaths  verberated  through  the  dim,  vaulted  space. 

Then  shouted  the  professor: 

"It's  the  same  old  sneaking  game,  in  a  new  dress — the 


326         THE  GOLDEN  BLIGHT 

same !  When  the  first  of  your  family  waited  at  Water 
loo,  saw  Wellington  victorious,  and  knew  in  London 
that  the  country  was  mad  with  fear  because  of  his  re 
ported  defeat " 

Braunschweig  smiled  indulgently. 

"Why  rake  up  ancient  history,  my  friend  ?"  exclaimed 
he.  "Have  you  not  enough  this  day  to  occupy  your 
mind?" 

"Then  killed  a  dozen  of  the  fastest  horses  to  get  to 
Calais — hired  a  swift  vessel  and  crossed  the  Channel 
before  the  news  could — "  continued  the  professor,  pant 
ing  with  rage,  "and  raced  to  London — bought,  bought, 
bought  wagon-loads  of  tumbling  British  securities — and 
in  a  few  hours  found  himself  rich  beyond  the  dreams  of 
avarice — " 

"Yes,  he  was  playing  the  capitalist  game,  and  playing 
it  hard,"  concluded  Braunschweig  with  a  laugh.  "And 
7  am  playing  it — harder!  And  you  are  losing !  Worse, 
you  are  whining  in  defeat.  You  cannot  feel  the  lash 
in  silence,  cowards  that  you  are ! 

"Cowards,  I  say!"  Braunschweig's  great  voice 
echoed  through  the  hollow  passageways.  "John  Storm 
spoke  the  truth.  You  love  the  game,  so  long  as  you 
win.  But  when  you  lose,  ach  Himmel!  you  split  the 
very  heavens  with  your  howls ! 

"But  do  not  wince,  my  friends.  Do  not  recriminate. 
It  can  do  no  good.  Listen  only.  I  must  have  your 
attention.  Because,  mark  you,  this  day  at  noon — 

"This  day  when  Storm  plans  to  strike  the  final  hoards 
which  are  not  where  he  thinks  they  are — this  day  is  the 
day  set  by  science  and  by  the  immutable  laws  of  nature, 
for  the  beginning  of  the  reintegration. 


THE  GOLD  RETURNS  327 

"This  day—" 

Braunschweig  could  not  finish.      Spontaneous  in  its 

rage,  bitter  and  unbridled,  the  hot  resentment  of  the 

|  tricked  and  cheated  financiers  burst  out  tumultuously. 

Hard-clenched   fists    rose   in   the   close,   stifling    air. 

i  Canes  brandished. 

In  a  score  of  tongues,  many  maledictions  rained  on 
j  the  world-master. 

Even  Baron  Iwami,  his  Japanese  aplomb  now  forgot 
ten,  hissed  "Baka!"  as  he  glared  at  Braunschweig  with 
a  darkened,  swollen  face  in  which  his  gleaming  eyes 
flicked  lights  like  a  cobra's. 

For  a  moment  it  looked  as  though  the  mob  of  out- 

|  raged  plutocrats — struck  in  their  tenderest  part,  the 

pocket — were  going  to   rush  him;  but  Braunschweig, 

standing  a  full  head  above  them  all,  only  smiled  right 

I  scornfully. 

!"Bah !"  gibed  he,  and  snapped  his  fingers.  "You  are 
what  you  call  the  good  sports,  eh?  I  think  not!  So 
long  you  win,  all  is  good.  You  bow,  you  smile  so. 
i  But  when  you  lose,  then  you  swear,  you  spit  at  me,  you 
call  me  6 Jew' !  Not  now  'eminent  Hebrew  financier,' 
and  'savior  of  society,'  but  'Schurke — pendard! — baka! 
— Shylock!'  Ach,  yes,  I  understand.  I  know  your 
different  languages,  you  men.  I  know!  I  will  repay 
you  yet !" 

His  face  grew  terrible.  There  in  that  darkened 
place,  where  only  the  garish  trembling  gleam  of  an  in 
candescent  fell  downward  and  aslant  across  his  power 
ful,  deep-lined  features,  silhouetting  his  brow,  nostrils 
and  scorn-curved  lips,  he  loomed  titanic. 

His  eyes,  half-seen  and  cavernous,  glowered  like  those 


328         THE  GOLDEN  BLIGHT 

of  Lucifer  surveying  the  lost  souls  which  all  had  fallen 
that  Tie  might  rise  to  evil  power. 

And  out  toward  the  snarling,  wrath-stung  press  be 
fore  him  he  stretched  his  corded  hand. 

"Behold !"  cried  he  in  a  loud  voice,  the  hidden  fanati 
cism  of  his  soul  suddenly  bursting  forth,  "Behold,  this 
shall  be  the  true  Zionism !  A  Jew  shall  enslave  you  all, 
you  pagans  and  you  Gentiles !  Behold,  my  race  comes 
to  its  own,  again !  'Vengeance  is  mine,  saith  the  Lord ; 
I  will  repay!'  Now  the  earth  and  the  fulness  thereof 
is  about  to  pass  into  mine  hand  and  to  my  people,  oh 
you  foolish  and  empty  generation ! 

"Thus  Israel  smites  the  Philistine,  hip  and  thigh! 
Two  thousand  years  and  more  you  and  yours  have 
robbed,  tortured,  slain  my  people.  But  now,  now  comes 
another  story.  Now  I  enter  the  game;  and  like  clay 
in  my  fingers,  I  squeeze  you  all,  every  one — all  govern 
ments,  all  great  men,  pagan  or  goy,  no  matter.  You 
are  all  alike  as  chaff  to  my  flame ! 

"Rachel  Revenge!  Praised  be  Jehovah,  Gott  in 
Israel!" 

But  even  as  he  stood  there,  irradiate  with  joy, 
thrilled  and  swollen  with  the  pride  of  vengeance  on  these 
exploiters,  hated  once  as  competitors,  scorned  now  as 
dupes  and  fools  and  beaten  weaklings  in  the  cut 
throat  game,  a  startled,  tremulous,  gasping  cry 
thrilled  all  the  darkened  vagueness  of  the  treasure- 
vaults. 

"Look!     See!     My  God— look  there!" 

"Aye,  look  there,  and  look  again,  and  still  once 
more!"  roared  Braunschweig,  in  a  vast,  triumphant 
bellow.  "Now,  watch!" 


THE  GOLD  RETURNS  329 

But  he  had  scant  need  to  tell  them,  or  to  announce 
the  truth. 

(For  now  the  cry  was  echoed  by  another ;  now  in  many 
tongues  and  accents  the  babel  of  that  wonder  echoed 
I  up  against  the  heavy  concrete  arches. 

"The  gold!      The  gold!      Look— see!      The  gold  is 
j  coming  back  again!" 

And  there  was  pointing  now;  and  there  were  run 
nings  to  and  fro. 

Grave  men,  silk-hatted  men,  and  men  with  long,  black 
frock  coats,  men  with  spectacles  and  canes,  or — per 
chance — with  swords  belted  to  their  waists;  men  with 
ribbons  and  decorations;  statesmen,  financiers,  great 
bankers  and  captains  of  industry;  these  stared  like 
children,  mazed  at  the  incredible,  unimaginable  wonder. 

Like  children  they  cried  out;  and,  open-mouthed, 
wide-eyed,  filled  and  shaken  with  almost  superstitious 
terror,  watched  that  miracle  swiftly  taking  place,  which 
from  the  very  first  the  great  Jew  had  foreknown  and 
planned  upon. 

"The  gold!  The  gold!  See  there,  the  gold  once 
more!" 

Down  along  the  aisles  where  the  still  unaltered  metal 
lay,  no  change  was  taking  place ;  but  in  every  corridor 
and  chamber  of  the  ash-catacomb,  where  lay  the  relics 
of  the  world's  one-time  gigantic  hoards,  a  swelling,  an 
integrant  revival  was  in  motion. 

Crepitant,  with  at  first  a  slow,  dry,  shifting  sound, 
like  sands,  perhaps,  blowing  up  over  the  edge  of  a  wind 
swept  dune ;  then  faster,  louder  and  more  strident,  the 
change  was  taking  place. 

And  the  whole  vaults  were  filled  with  that  slithering, 


330          THE  GOLDEN  BLIGHT 

sliding  noise ;  and  here  a  bag  broke,  there  a  shelf  cracked 
and  fell  with  the  sudden  strain. 

Where  only  dust  had  been,  now  were  beginning  to 
shine,  in  yellow  sparkles,  scattered  and  ever-growing 
signs  of  gold  once  more ! 

Dumb-stricken,  the  watchers  stared,  peering  in  awe 
and  terror  down  the  long  and  dusty  passageways. 

They  knew  not — in  that  deep,  heavily  vaulted  treas 
ure-house,  with  steel  doors  closing  them  in,  how  could 
they  know? — that  out  in  the  broad,  sunshiny  world, 
the  same  stupendous  thing  was  taking  place  as  well. 

Wherever  a  little  dust  had  been  left  by  the  sweeping 
besom  of  Braunschweig's  search  for  ash,  wherever  a 
pinch  of  the  gray  powder  still  lay,  overlooked  by  the 
great  Jew's  agents  or  preserved  for  old  association's 
sake,  there  gold  came  back  again. 

No  longer  the  form  was  kept ;  but  molecule  by  mole 
cule,  the  element,  the  metal  was  reintegrating ! 

Storm's  radio jector,  almost  at  the  moment  of  its  final 
foray  on  the  world's  gold,  had  tapped  and  drained  the 
last  available  waves  of  Zeta-rays.  And  gold,  released 
from  that  invisible  yet  blighting  force,  once  more  was 
reasserting  its  indestructibility,  its  indomitable  power 
and  its  life. 

Here,  there,  everywhere,  the  overlooked  grains  flashed 
back  to  gold!  On  the  Metropolitan  lantern  in  New 
York ;  on  the  State  House  dome  in  Boston,  the  particles 
of  ash  still  left  lodged  in  interstices,  now  met  the  noon 
day  sun  with  a  faint  yet  revivifying  sparkle  that  thrilled 
men  with  an  abandon  of  joy. 

Old  family  heirlooms,  rings,  brooches,  frames  and 
gewgaws  of  all  kinds,  which  had  held  a  certain  amount 


THE  GOLD  RETURNS  331 

}f  gold  in  alloy  with  baser  metals  and  had  mechanically 
retained  the  gold-ash,  now  recovered  their  sheen  and 
brilliancy. 

In  pockets,  in  bureau-drawers,  even  in  gutters  and  all 
isorts  of  inconceivably  strange  places,  myriad  little  nug 
gets  and  glistering  beads  of  gold  began  to  be  discov 
ered. 

Mushroomlike,  these  curious  growths  sprang  up,  the 
result  of  that  strong,  together-drawing,  reintegratory 
force  now  set  free  by  the  exhaustion  of  Storm's  Zeta- 
ray,  as  Braunschweig's  savants  had  predicted. 

All  in  all,  some  millions  of  dollars'  worth  of  such 
curios  must  have  been  found,  either  by  their  former 
owners  or  by  strangers;  and  for  a  while,  all  over  the 
world,  strange  scenes  and  lawless  ones  took  place. 

But  the  total  of  this  miscellaneous  gold,  all  told,  was 
not  one  per  cent,  of  that  which  now,  close-mured  in  the 
i  Treasury  vaults,  was  rushing  back  like  a  tide,  rising, 
filling,  overflowing  with  resistless  force. 


CHAPTER    XXXVI 

THE    MOLTEN    FLOOD 

Now  on  every  hand  the  buckskin  and  canvas  bags 
were  bursting  with  ripping  sounds  and  dull  reports. 
Shelves  groaned  and  creaked,  broke  down  and  crashed 
to  the  floor;  and  the  spilled  dust,  reintegrating  as  it 
fell,  flung  a  shining,  shimmering  wealth  across  the  con 
crete. 

The  startled  plutocrats,  knowing  not  which  way  to 
turn,  saw  wonders  on  all  sides.  Here  a  passage  was 
already  choked  with  the  swift  rush  of  the  returning 
treasure,  there  a  whole  tier  of  sacks  came  rolling,  tum 
bling  down,  breaking  open  as  they  fell. 

A  confused  uproar,  made  of  a  thousand  noises, 
crashed  booming  through  the  vaults. 

And  through  the  huge  and  rapidly  growing  confu 
sion,  the  saturnine,  deep  laugh  of  Braunschweig  re 
echoed  loudly. 

But — what  was  this? 

Already  a  distinct  change  of  temperature  was  to  be 
felt ;  already  the  vast,  the  sudden  liberation  of  all  that 
molecular  activity  was  beginning  to  produce  its  inevi 
table  effect — heat. 

An  Argentine  banker,  stooping,  touched  some  of  the 
newly  restored,  quickly  expanding  gold.  With  a  cry 
of  "Dios  Mio!"  he  drew  back  his  hand,  scorched. 

332 


THE  MOLTEN  FLOOD  333 

Far  down  one  passageway,  a  thin,  bright  molten 
stream  appeared. 

Serpentlike  it  advanced  its  glistening  head;  it  wa 
vered,  ran  forward  sinuously,  hesitated,  then  with  ac 
celerating  speed  and  quickly  swelling  volume  cascaded 
forward. 

"Great  God !"  exclaimed  Grand  Duke  Fedor  Ivanoff, 
a  broken,  dissipated  man  who  was  reported  to  own 
twelve  million  roubles'  worth  of  Russo-Japanese  war 
bonds,  and  to  have  sold  184,000  rifles  to  the  Mikado. 
BozTie  moy!  The  pressure — it  melts  the  gold!" 

Here  and  there,  other  like  cries  were  rising,  now. 
The  truth  was  beginning  already  to  drive  home  to  these 
astounded,  dazed  and  wondering  plutocrats,  there  in 
the  far  recesses  of  the  vaults.  They  were  beginning  to 
understand,  though  vaguely,  the  fact  of  this  sudden, 
violent,  molecular  change. 

No  other  result  was  possible.  The  elementary  prin 
ciple  was  at  work,  that  an  expanding  body,  constricted, 
was  developing  heat. 

Glaciers  move  forward  over  a  coat  of  pressure-melted 
ice,  which  cannot  freeze  because  of  the  great  weight. 
Compressed  air  grows  hot.  Long-hammered  iron  be 
comes  red-hot,  or  even  white. 

So  now  this  dust,  suddenly  leaping  back  to  gold 
again,  rose  to  the  melting-point,  then  fused,  and  now  in 
ever-thickening  torrents,  rolled  along  the  concrete  pas 
sageways;  and  as  it  rolled,  it  licked  into  its  jaws  still 
more  gold  and  still  more. 

Added  to  the  intense  molecular  activity  of  the  radio-: 
active  reintegration,  was  the  physical  effect  of  the  pres 
sure. 


334.          THE  GOLDEN  BLIGHT 

Under  the  double  urge  the  gold  melted  like  tallow  on 
a  stove ;  and  ever,  always,  more  and  more  dust  swelled, 
changed,  melted,  and  began  to  flow  and  flame. 

Alarmed  now,  with  all  scientific  wonder  and  all 
thoughts  of  gold-lust  or  of  revenge  swept  quite  away — 
with  only  startled  cries  to  voice  their  sudden  panic,  the 
men  of  Mammon  were  retreating. 

No  longer  Braunschweig  laughed;  no  longer  his 
beaten  competitors  thought  to  curse  or  to  revile  him. 

Life,  now,  they  sought — they  who  had  caused  so 
many  million  deaths  that  they  might  fatten.  Life, 
life  alone ! 

But  now  all  was  confusion. 

Already  the  golden  flood  had  poured  across  the  exit. 

In  the  limited  space  of  those  vaults  was  stored  dust 
which  represented  a  volume  of  gold  at  least  three  times 
larger  than  the  entire  cubic  area  of  the  stronghold. 

Gold  from  South  Africa,  tundra  gold,  Alaska  beach- 
gold,  now  mingled  in  a  shimmering  yellow  tide  with  the 
returning  wealth  that  once  had  been  the  war-hoards  of 
Europe  and  the  New  World. 

And  faster  now,  faster  still,  the  temperature  was 
rising. 

The  crashing-down  of  shelves,  the  sliding  of  great 
heaps  of  ash  and  gold,  the  crackling  of  flames  as  the 
molten  gold  fired  the  broken  woodwork  of  the  compart 
ments,  blent  in  horrible  turmoil. 

As  the  scared  plutocrats,  gasping,  choking,  feeling 
their  way  along  the  few  remaining  corridors  still  prac 
ticable,  stumbled  toward  the  door  of  tool-steel,  a  ther 
mometer  on  any  wall  there  would  have  registered  a 
minimum  of  115°. 


THE  MOLTEN  FLOOD  335 

Not  merely  did  the  heat  mount ;  it  soared — it  leaped 
aloft  like  a  vast,  venomous,  strangling  serpent  that 
caught  its  victims  by  the  windpipe  and  seared  them 
with  its  blasting  poison. 

Bankers  who  with  the  utmost  complacency  had  sent 
thousands  of  their  fellowmen  out  on  to  the  crashing, 
;  flaming  battlefield  or  staggering  up  the  Maxim-scoured 
:  hills,  now  with  the  sudden  squealing  terror  of  trapped 
\  rats  fought  to  find  the  exit  through  that  blistering  haze 
I  of  smoke  and  poisonous  vapor. 

Toward  the  vault  doors,  blinded,  wheezing,  panic- 
sick,  the  Mammonites,  "the  civilized,  fur-lined,  ortho 
dox  cannibals,  the  blow-flies  of  a  putrescent  civiliza 
tion,"  staggered  drunkenly. 

Unheeded,  the  tall  hats  rolled  away.  Canes  fell  to 
the  hot  concrete.  Monocles  and  pince-nez  dropped  and 
were  crushed  beneath  the  stumbling  feet. 

In  two  minutes  the  sleekest,  smoothest,  fattest  pluto- 

j  crat  among  them  was  more  grimed  and  torn,  more  sav- 

1  age,  frantic  and  bestial  than  a  prehistoric  cave-man 

:  scuttling  through  his  caverns  to  escape  some  volcanic 

upburst  of  the  infinitely  long  ago. 

Here  a  glimpse  of  a  pale,  distorted  face  and  rolling 
eyes,  through  the  fast-thickening  murk. 

There  a  clutching  hand  appeared — then  vanished  in 
the  smoke. 

Further,  dim-seen  like  a  drove  of  Dante's  lost  spirits 
in  the  fiery  rain,  a  jostling  group  of  world-masters 
fought,  tooth  and  nail,  to  get  through  some  last  avail 
able  open  passageway. 

And  murder-blows  were  struck  with  fist  and  cane 
and  pocket-knife,  red-bladed  now;  blood  ran;  full-fed 


336         THE  GOLDEN  BLIGHT 

bodies  went  down,  screeching,  clutching,  engulfed  in  the 
ever-rising,  ever-oncoming  golden  flood. 

Where  now  was  Braunschweig? 

They  no  longer  knew,  nor  cared.  Once  he  appeared, 
vast  in  the  c yanid  smoke  and  swirl ;  then  was  gone. 

With  skins  parching,  shriveling,  turning  black,  hair 
crisping  in  the  glow  as  they  retreated  away,  away  from 
the  doors,  back  into  the  furthest  runways  and  alleys  of 
the  vaults  for  some  slight  temporary  relief,  little  they 
thought  of  him ! 

No  longer  did  they  lust  for  the  rich  yellow  metal, 
so  plentifully  poured  out  before  them,  there.  No 
longer  desired  they  aught  save  to  escape  its  death- 
bringing  touch. 

Gold,  which  under  their  control  so  long  had  poisoned, 
stifled,  garroted  the  world,  now  blindly  and  inexorably 
had  turned  upon  them  all.  Once  their  slave,  it  now 
had  leaped  to  power  as  their  savage,  their  insensate 
master  and  destroyer. 

Cut  off  already,  blocked  and  rendered  inaccessible 
the  doorway  was,  by  tides  of  livid  metal.  Past  these 
they  could  not  penetrate.  Howling,  praying  in  hoarse 
screams,  cursing,  they  retreated,  with  ashen  faces  al 
ready  scorching,  with  fear-writhen  lips,  with  mouths 
that  twitched  and  yelled  and  sobbed  even  like  the 
mouths  of  wounded  and  dying  men,  mangled  and  for 
saken  on  the  battle-field. 

One  might  almost  have  thought  the  vault  a  scene  in  a 
steel-trust  mill,  when  some  imperfect  crucible  or  some 
defective  furnace  bursts  and  lets  the  molten  iron  loose 
upon  the  slaves  of  steel. 

Hendricks,  steel  magnate  and  prominent  opponent  of 


THE  MOLTEN  FLOOD          337 

labor  legislation,  may  have  had  some  dim  thought  of 
I  this  likeness  just  before  he  stumbled  over  Iwami's  body 
and  went  down,  strangling,  writhing,  never  to  rise 
again. 

Fervent  as  a  pit-fire  in  a  West  Virginia  or  a  Colo 
rado  coal-mine,  the  conflagration  charred  their  very 
*  bones  and  marrow. 

Up,  swiftly  up  the  heat  still  swooped,  like  a  mono 
plane  released  against  a  strong  head-wind. 

Four,  six  of  them  were  down  now — ten — a  dozen! 

Seared,  scorched,  blinded,  smoking  they  fell,  clawing 
in  vain  at  the  unyielding,  deadly  walls  of  steel. 

From  the  further  alcoves  and  recesses,  still  untouched 

save  by  the  vapors  and  foul  gases,  strangling  screams 

I  of  anguish,  shrill  as  those  of  soldiers  burned  alive  by 

j  the  feuerwerfer  of  the  Prussians,  jaggedly  split  the 

dun  and  verberating  air. 

Penned  into  the  last  few  aisles,  numbed,  dying,  grop 
ing  vainly  for  they  knew  not  what,  the  still  surviving 
gold  men  still  staggered  to  and  fro,  grappling,  weakly 
thrusting  their  groping  way  past  and  over  each  other. 

"Water!     For  God's  sake,  water!" 

It  was  Baker's  voice,  now  weak  and  hoarse,  a  ter 
rible,  wailing  scream. 

Baker  fell,  trying  to  clamber  up  on  to  a  smoldering 
shelf — fell,  and  was  trampled  by  Wainwright,  and  died 
with  imprecations  on  his  blackened  lips. 

Wainwright,  stone-blind  and  seared  till  the  flesh 
peeled  from  face  and  hands,  seized  Murchison  and 
thrust  him,  like  a  shield,  against  the  oncoming  lava 
tide  of  gold. 

The  two  men  clawed  at  each  other,  howling  dismally, 


338         THE  GOLDEN  BLIGHT 

like  wildcats  in  a  trap.  Wainwright's  brute  strength 
still  served  him,  for  a  moment,  though  already  he  had 
breathed  fire  and  his  lungs  were  cooked.  A  few  seconds 
he  still  made  a  screen  of  the  writhing,  screeching  bil 
lionaire,  even  as,  aforetime,  Murchison  himself  had  held 
a  clerk  before  him,  to  ward  off  a  bomb-explosion,  ter 
ribly  mangling  the  clerk,  who  had  never  been  able  to 
collect  a  penny  of  damages. 

But  Wainwright's  respite  was  brief.  For  now  the 
gold  was  on  them  both. 

Breath  failed.  They  reeled  and  sank,  together ;  and 
the  coruscating  metal  took  them.  Death  was  welcome. 

The  sickening  smell  of  burnt  flesh  and  hair,  of  baking 
bones  and  blood,  spread  through  the  smoke-filled  air. 
The  scene  almost  paralleled,  in  a  small  way,  a  glorious 
victory  over  the  'red  rampart's  slippery  edge'  of  battle. 

A  frightful,  screaming  laugh  howled  through  the 
ruddy,  flaming  smoke  and  fumes. 

Braunschweig,  at  bay,  staggered  to  his  feet  for  a 
brief  instant. 

Gone,  now,  his  prophet-beard — scorched  clean  from 
his  blackened,  roasted  face.  Gone  his  leonine  hair. 

And  now  his  crackling  skin  broke,  as  with  a  fiendlike 
grimace  of  defiance  he  flung  both  mighty  arms  aloft. 

Still,  to  the  end,  his  huge  strength  seemed  to  vitalize 
that  tremendous  body.  Stricken,  blinded,  gripped  at 
the  throat  by  stifling  gases,  poisonous  and  hot,  the 
great  Jew  stood  erect,  unyielding,  proud. 

Gold!  All  his  life  a  slave  to  him,  a  willing  serf  and 
tool,  not  even  now  when  it  had  turned  on  him  to  slay 
him,  would  he  bow  to  it. 

"Gold !     Gold !     The  whole  world's  gold !"  roared  he, 


THE  MOLTEN  FLOOD  339 

hoarse  and  terrible  as  the  Minotaur  in  the  fabled 
Cretan  labyrinth. 

"All  mine — mine!     Allr—" 

Crash! 

Down  on  him  collapsed  a  scorching  partition. 

A  spurt  of  flame — a  rolling,  tumbling  flow  of  scintil- 
lant  gold! 

Then  smoke  and  fumes  covered  all. 

Silence ! 

Silence,  save  for  the  crackle  of  the  flames,  the  rip 
pling,  crawling  tourbillons  of  gold  that  swirled,  rose, 
mounted  ever;  that  filled  the  vaults  clear  to  their 
arches ;  that,  still  unchecked,  swifter  and  ever  swifter 
still,  expanded,  burst  upward  through  the  solid  roof  of 
the  crypt  in  a  vast  deluge  of  bright,  blinding  glory. 

Silence ! 

Death! 

Death  for  the  Mammonites. 

Yet  as  they  died,  life  for  the  people  was  coming  to  its 
birth.  Life  for  the  nation.  Life  for  the  waiting, 
eager,  mazed  and  trembling  world. 


CHAPTER    XXXVII 

SUNSHINE    UPON    THE    HEIGHTS 

DRIVEN  back  by  the  swiftly  accelerating  heat  and 
smoke  about  the  now  deserted  Treasury  building,  the 
stupendous  multitudes  watched  the  outbursting  of  this 
cataclysmic  flood  with  silent  wonder. 

Where,  at  the  beginning  of  the  Blight,  all  had  been 
noise,  panic,  tumult  and  uproar  inconceivable,  now  a 
calm,  watchful,  patient  dignity  possessed  the  people. 

What  was  happening? 

Nobody  knew  exactly. 

The  general  opinion — as  you  will  find  it  reflected  in 
the  press  of  that  day,  if  you  refer  back  to  the  files  of 
the  old  papers — seems  to  have  been  that  this  subter 
ranean  disturbance  was  one  symptom  of  Storm's  final 
coup,  the  destruction  of  the  last  national  reserve  of 
1,200  tons  of  gold. 

But,  for  a  while,  nothing  was  done.  The  cit}',  black 
with  people,  simply  stood  still  and  watched,  even  as  the 
nation  and  the  world,  by  wire  and  by  wireless,  were 
watching  too. 

So  disorganized  every  department  of  life  seemed  to 
have  been,  so  wholly  disjointed  all  the  local  and  Fed 
eral   governmental  machinery,  that  even   so   trivial   a 
detail  as  the  ringing  in  of  a  fire-alarm  was  neglected. 
Even  had  an  alarm  been  pulled,  no  engines  could  have 

340 


SUNSHINE  UPON  HEIGHTS      341 

penetrated  the  close-packed  masses  of  people  which  for 
many  blocks  in  all  directions — even  from  Potomac  Park 
and  the  river,  around  by  the  Capitol  and  the  Union 
Station,  as  far  to  westward  as  Rock  Creek — rendered 
the  streets  wholly  impassable. 

Even  those  who  now  began  to  feel  the  heat  and  fear 
the  up-bursting  smoke  as  it  coiled  from  the  basement 
windows,  as  it  writhed  up  between  the  sidewalk  nag 
gings  and  cracks  in  the  asphalt  pavement,  burst  up 
volcano-like  through  coal-holes  and  drifted  from  the 
very  earth  itself  below  their  feet — even  these,  nearest 
the  scene  of  the  gold  integration,  succeeded  in  fighting 
their  way  back  only  by  tremendous  effort. 

But  there  was  no  rioting.  Such  disturbance  as  oc 
curred  was  merely  the  effort  of  the  inner  masses  of 
people  to  retreat  before  the  growing  cataclysm. 

A  strange,  unnatural  calm  held  them  in  thrall. 

And,  slowly  yielding,  the  vast  ring  of  watchers  wid 
ened  as  the  heat  and  smoke  grew  more  and  more  oppres 
sive. 

The  first  gush  of  molten  gold,  however,  produced  a 
violent  outcry,  and  some  disorders  in  which  a  number 
of  spectators  were  injured. 

At  sight  of  that  vivid,  spurting,  sparkling  flow,  a 
long  and  quickly  swelling  thunder  of  massed  voices  rose ; 
it  spread  and  echoed  like  concentric  waves  on  a  vast 
lake. 

The  whole  city  seemed  to  acclaim  it  with  passionate 
fervor. 

The  very  spot  where  the  metal  first  broke  through, 
just  a  little  south  of  the  southwest  corner  of  the  build 
ing,  is — as  you  know — to-day  marked  by  that  rugged, 


342         THE  GOLDEN  BLIGHT 

symbolic  "Liberation  Monument,"  without  a  cut  of 
which  no  school  history  is  nowadays  complete. 

The  first  jet  was  followed  by  many  others,  almost 
simultaneously;  and  now  the  earth  cracked  and  ripped 
apart  as  fumes  and  metal  alike  began  to  fulminate. 

All  accounts — though  differing  somewhat  in  detail — 
agree  that  the  north  wing  was  the  first  to  fall.  Faster, 
thicker  the  smoke  came  now.  Up-welling,  the  golden 
flood  bubbled  and  gushed  from  a  thousand  apertures; 
it  spread  out,  twisting,  writhing  in  fantasies  of  voluted 
golden  lava-flows. 

And  as  these  hardened,  fresh  jets  from  still  other 
fumaroles  gushed  over  them.  The  whole  earth  vi 
brated,  groaning  with  the  intense  travail  of  the  vaults 
beneath — the  laboring  strain  of  the  expanding  hoard 
that,  pent  by  steel  and  concrete  and  by  towering  walls, 
fought  to  be  free. 

Thus  Vulcan  toils  beneath  Patmos;  thus  the  Earth 
Giants  and  the  Midgard  Serpent  of  the  Eddas  toil. 

Now  great  splintering  cracks  ran,  booming  all 
through  the  north  wall  of  the  building.  They  splayed 
out  like  lightning  chains. 

And,  suddenly,  with  a  titanic  heave  and  thrust,  a 
long  section  of  the  foundation  lifted. 

It  dropped  again,  amid  a  rain  of  falling  chimney- 
stacks,  cornices,  shattered  window-ledges  and  facing- 
stones. 

And  as  it  sank,  a  stupendous  dragon-burst  of  flame, 
of  smoke  and  spurting  gold  belched  heavenward. 

Then  the  whole  north  wing,  crumpled  like  a  card- 
house  struck  by  a  cyclone,  roared  down  to  ruin. 

Before  the  thunder  of  the  shock  and'  of  the  million- 


SUNSHINE  UPON  HEIGHTS      343 

throated  cry  had  died,  the  central  fa9ade  caved  back 
ward,  crushing  the  undermined  body  of  the  structure. 
Half  a  minute  later  the  south  wing,  rent  apart,  swayed, 
tottered  and  suddenly  collapsed. 

Where  the  Treasury  had  stood,  a  symbol  of  capital 
ist  might  and  hoarding  power,  now  lay  a  tremendous, 
roughly  conical  pile  of  steel  and  stone  and  gold. 

High  in  air,  a  stupendous  pillar  of  smoke  and  dust 
shot  up. 

At  the  top  it  broadened,  mushroomlike.  Slowly  this 
huge,  monstrous  signal-column  drifted  away  on  the 
southeast  wind  up  the  valley  of  the  Potomac. 

Swirling  flames,  vapors,  leaping  and  roaring  masses 
of  metal,  stifled  reports  and  booming  verberations,  with 
everywhere  the  bright  f.iid  crawling  founts  of  gold,  gold, 
gold — all  made  a  pic'  ure  such  as  never  yet  was  seen  on 
earth  and  never  any  more  shall  be. 

In  the  smoke  of  that  vast  funeral  pyre  of  the  men  of 
gold,  the  capitalist  system  lifted  from  off  the  weary 
shoulders  of  the  world. 

And  like  the  wraith  of  a  forgotten,  evil  dream — a 
dream  of  horror,  blood,  lust,  war — it  drifted  on,  on, 
away;  it  faded,  vanished  utterly  upon  the  wings  of  the 
pure,  cold  December  wind. 

For,  though  the  actual  gold  remained,  the  world  had 
fundamentally  altered,  vitally  transmuted  during  the 
long  stress  and  terror  of  the  Blight.  And  that  which 
men  had  seemed  to  love,  now  they  hated  with  a  bitter 
ness  wherein  fear  played  a  vital  part. 

Such  was  the  first  step  out  into  freedom,  the  first  long 
step  toward  reason  and  the  dominance  of  pure  intelli 
gence. 


344         THE  GOLDEN  BLIGHT 

When  Storm  had  struck  even  his  first  blow,  the  world 
had  for  many  a  long  and  toil-worn  year  been  "ripe  and 
rotten-ripe  for  change." 

Millions  of  men  already  had  accepted,  with  the  pas 
sionate  fervor  of  a  new  and  vital  faith,  the  knowledge 
of  social  evolution ;  millions  were  hoping,  waiting,  work 
ing  for  the  Great  Change. 

Storm's  campaign  had  done  more  than  temporarily 
destroy  gold.  It  had  killed  an  idea,  throttled  a  super 
stition.  It  had  forever  shattered  to  the  uttermost  foun 
dation  mankind's  submission  to  the  idea  that  plutoc 
racy — the  gold  power — possessed  any  right  whatsoever 
to  rule  and  rack  and  ruin. 

It  had  been  the  fecundating  germ  of  an  incalculable 
mutation,  the  electric  spark  firing  the  train  of  univer 
sal,  resistless  mass-revolt. 

In  the  weeks  of  Storm's  progressive  victory  over  gold 
(a  concrete  object  lesson  of  the  helplessness  of  matter, 
the  dominance  of  intellect),  so  much  water  had  run 
under  the  world's  economic,  social  and  political 
bridges,  that — now  with  the  dominant  masters  seared 
and  sealed  under  tons  of  rigid  gold — nothing  could  ever 
any  more  bring  the  people's  neck  again  sub  jugum, 
under  the  yoke. 

King  Gold  was  dead! 

A  rejoicing  world,  uprising  millions  upon  uncounted 
millions,  acclaimed  his  death ;  and,  to  the  farthest  isles, 
kings,  emperors,  czars  found  their  thrones  a-crumble, 
their  crowns  falling,  their  ermine  transformed  to  the 
sackcloth  of  fear  and  flight. 

But  the  people,  glad  in  triumph,  knew  the  day  of 
longed-for  freedom  was  at  the  dawn.  Up  fluttered  the 


SUNSHINE  UPON  HEIGHTS      345 

crimson   banners   of   fraternity;   the   "International," 
sung  in  all  tongues,  ushered  the  better  day. 

Hardly  had  the  gold  stiffened  into  its  fantastic  gro- 
tesquerie,  binding  and  gripping  the  ruins  of  the  Treas 
ury  in  a  thousand  weird  embraces,  when  popular  pres 
sure  on  Congress  caused  to  be  drawn  and  enacted  the 
famous  national  monument  bill,  and  called  for  an  Inter 
national  Values  Commission,  to  sit  at  Washington. 

The  bill  provided,  as  you  know,  that  the  Treasury 
ruins  be  appropriately  fenced  and  surrounded  by  a 
park,  adjoining  the  Administration  grounds  and  em 
bracing  the  territory  between  H  Street,  Fourteenth  and 
Pennsylvania  Avenues;  and  that  the  granite  pile,  gold 
and  all,  should  forever  remain  inviolate — softened  only 
by  time  and  by  the  fingering  tendrils  of  woodbine  and 
ivy — as  a  huge  memorial  of  past  human  folly  and  of 
the  crimes  of  capital,  in  other  days. 

The  values  commission,  representing  every  civilized 
nation  in  the  world,  demonetized  gold,  after  a  two-days' 
session. 

Certain  reactionaries  proposed  mining  the  gold  from 
the  ruins,  and  trying  to  reestablish  the  System;  but 
their  suggestion  was  not  even  made  public.  For  in  the 
existing  state  of  popular  enthusiasm,  grave  conse 
quences  might  have  resulted. 

Gold  thus  lost  its  fictitious,  imaginary,  dream-spun 
value,  and  became  simply  an  ordinary  metal,  like  any 
other.  Save  in  the  arts  and  sciences,  it  now  possessed 
no  more  importance  than  lead — even  less,  for  many  uses. 

No  longer  an  exchange  medium,  its  power  for  ill  van 
ished  forever. 


346          THE  GOLDEN  BLIGHT 

The  news  flamed  from  a  hundred  thousand  bulletin- 
boards,  to  shouting,  cheering  millions;  and  the  vast 
series  of  fetes  that  resulted,  could  not  find  adequate  de 
scription  in  a  library  of  quarto  volumes. 

Still  further,  the  radical  elements  of  society  all  the 
world  over,  had  in  the  weeks  of  stress  so  enormously 
strengthened  their  power  that  now  they  at  once  began 
demonetizing  silver  also  and  introducing  a  system  of 
labor-certificates,  personal  and  non-transferable,  as  the 
only  legal  tender. 

With  their  rise  to  control,  all  exploitation,  involun 
tary  poverty,  war  and  the  whole  misbegotten  brood  of 
capitalism,  soon  passed  beyond  the  bounds  of  any  pos 
sible  resuscitation. 

Far  more  than  this,  the  cooperative  commonwealth, 
whereof  unnumbered  sages  and  philosophers  had 
dreamed,  for  which  uncounted  multitudes  had  labored 
and  died,  now  shone — clearly  at  hand — upon  the  heights 
ahead. 


EPILOGUE 


COMFORTABLY  leaning  back  in  his  big  chair  at  the 
very  window  of  the  Planters'  and  Traders'  Hotel,  from 
which  he  had  watched  the  destruction  of  the  Treasury, 
John  Storm  drew  for  a  moment  at  his  cigar  before  con 
cluding  his  long  letter  of  refusal. 

The  sun-soaked  radiance  of  that  southern  winter 
morning  beat  warmly  on  the  table  before  him.  He  pon 
dered  a  moment  with  wrinkled  brows,  then  shook  his 
fountain  pen,  and  wrote  these  final  paragraphs  : 

So  then,  in  spite  of  what  you  kindly  interpret  as  a  strong 
popular  demand,  I  cannot  accept  My  services  could  be  of  no 
further  advantage  to  the  country.  I  am  no  statesman  —  only  an 
engineer.  I  gratefully  appreciate  the  unwarranted  honor  done 
me;  but  still  I  must  refuse.  With  all  the  gratitude  in  the  world, 
I  positively  must  state  that  I  cannot  now,  nor  can  I  at  any 
future  time,  even  remotely  consider  accepting  any  public  office 
of  whatsoever  nature,  kind,  or  character. 

My  work,  so  far  as  it  concerns  the  people  as  a  whole,  as  a 
political  unit,  is  done.  The  science  which  I  serve  shall  always 
be  at  their  disposal;  but  I,  personally,  must  remain  a  private 
citizen,  unrewarded  save  through  the  realization  of  my  dreams. 

This  decision,  then,  is  final.  With  the  heartiest  thanks,  again, 
and  all  regrets  that  I  cannot  see  my  way  clear  to  the  acceptance 
of  the  signal  honor  offered  me,  I  remain, 

Faithfully  yours, 

STORM. 


He  reread  the  entire  letter,  sealed  it  and  made  it 
ready  for  mailing. 

347 


348          THE  GOLDEN  BLIGHT 

"Thank  Heaven  that's  done!"  sighed  he,  much  re 
lieved.  "What  a  dog's  life  a  writer's  must  be !" 

For  a  little  while  he  smoked  in  silence. 

"Dreams,"  said  he  to  himself  at  length.      "Yes,  I, 
too,  have  had  my  dreams,  even  I.      And  now  they're  j 
coming  true ! 

"Dreams  of  an  infinitely  better  world  than  any  man 
kind  has  ever  known — a  world  free  from  the  oppressions 
of  kings,  priests  and  capitalists,  liberated  from  the 
nightmare-rule  of  gold,  forever  done  with  slavery  and 
exploitation  and  the  ghastly,  blood-stained  madness  of 
war. 

"Dreams  of  a  world  of  joy,  peace,  knowledge,  in  ,: 
which  mankind  shall  come  into  its  rightful  heritage  and 
own  the  earth  as  one  great  family,  each  giving  accord 
ing  to  his  ability,  each  taking  according  to  his  need. 
A  world  without  bitterness  and  strife ;  a  world  of  aspira 
tion  and  of  love. 

"Now,  for  the  first  time,  ideals  can  come  to  full 
fruition.  The  human  race,  its  chains  unbound,  can 
now  for  the  first  time  live  its  visions,  and  prove  the 
innate  nobility  of  the  human  soul.  In  place  of  misery, 
poverty,  anguish,  woe  and  death,  shall  be  light  and 
joy,  knowledge,  art,  music,  development,  plenty,  peace 
and  life ! 

"Life  was  meant  to  be  free,  joyous,  self -expressive. 
The  few,  with  cynic  power,  have  chained  it  in  hard 
bonds  of  woe  and  travail.  But  now,  already  'the  old 
order  changeth,  giving  place  to  new !'  " 

He  got  up,  went  over  to  the  window  and  opened  it, 
then  for  a  while  leaned  on  his  elbows,  looking  out. 

A  pearly  haze   obscured   the   horizon,   that   winter 


EPILOGUE  349 

morning.  Away  and  away  the  Potomac  stretched  a 
crinkled  ribbon  of  blue  watered  silk.  Over  all,  through 
all,  brooded  quiet  and  calm  and  joy. 

"H-m!"  said  he  to  himself  at  length,  "before  long  I 
shan't  have  to  be  putting  up  with  pipes  or  ordinary 
every-day  cigars.  Before  long  now,  I'll  be  having 
about  all  the  Mindanaos  I  want — genuine  Mindanaos, 
from  my  own  ground  down  there  in  Cuthbert,  Georgia ! 

"Singular  how  I  happened  to  discover  that  patch  of 
ground,  eh?  Nestled  right  into  a  cozy  corner  of  old 
Mother  Nature's  lap,  with  the  south-wind  blowing  over 
and  the  sun,  mellow  and  clear  on  it — some  soil,  and 
that's  a  fact. 

"Same  identical  composition,  too,  as  that  of  the 
Vuelta  Aba  jo — only  excepting  just  the  touch  that  my 
new  atmospheric  nitrogen  process  will  give  it.  When 
those  plants  reach  me,  and  I  get  to  work  setting  'em 
out — dressed  in  a  pair  of  overalls  and  a  corn-cob — 
say! 

"And  yet  they're  trying  to  force  that  office  on  to 
me!" 

He  broke  into  a  deep  chuckle  of  content. 

The  sunlight  on  his  face  showed  it  a  trifle  thinner,  a 
bit  paler  than  before  the  Blight;  but  it  was  still  the 
same  strong,  half -humorous,  half-stern  face,  kindly,  de 
termined  and  very  human. 

All  at  once,  far  off,  a  bell  began  to  ring. 

Another  took  up  the  chime ;  a  third,  a  fourth ;  many 
and  many  joined  the  chorus. 

Storm  leaned  on  crossed  arms  to  listen. 

Pipe  gripped  in  teeth,  he  harkened  the  New  Year's 
peals. 


350         THE  GOLDEN  BLIGHT 

A  sparrow,  perched  on  a  projecting  cornice  near  at 
hand,  cocked  a  bright,  curious  eye  at  him. 

Storm  smiled  again. 

"You're  living  under  a  new  dispensation  this  day, 
know  that?"  he  asked  the  sparrow.  "I  guess  by  the 
look  of  things  there'll  be  more  crumbs  for  all  of  us, 
from  now  on.  Enough  for  everybody,  eh?  and  not  too 
much  for  anybody — and  no  more  quarreling !" 

Away  with  a  flick  of  brown  wings  the  sparrow  darted. 

"Freedom!"  mused  Storm.  "How  good  it  is — how 
good  the  world  is  now,  and  the  people,  and  everything 
— now  that  the  chance  exists!" 

He  paused  and  looked  abroad. 

Louder  "the  bells  sounded  now;  louder,  clearer,  more 
triumphant. 

"Is  it  possible,"  wondered  the  man,  awed  by  the  tre 
mendous  thought,  "that  I,  /  have  given  this  New  Year's 
gift  to  man?  This  gift  of  life,  instead  of  war  and 
death;  this  gift  of  hope  and  joy  and  plenty? 

"No,  not  I!  Not  I!  Science  has  worked  this  mir 
acle;  and  by  her  hand  she  shall  yet  bring  mankind  to 
perfect  knowledge,  perfect  light !" 

He  raised  his  head  and  listened,  his  heart  athrill; 
and  to  his  soul  the  brazen  bells  cried,  in  a  paean  of  wild 
triumph : 

Ring  out  old  shapes  of  foul  disease, 
Ring  out  the  narrowing  lust  of  gold! 
Ring  out  the  thousand  wars  of  old, 
*  Ring  in  the  thousand  years  of  peace! 

THE    END 


14  DAY  USE 

RETURN  TO  DESK  FROM  WHICH  BORROWED 

LOAN  DEPT. 

This  book  is  due  on  the  last  date  stamped  below,  or 

on  the  date  to  which  renewed. 
Renewed  books  are  subject  to  immediate  recall. 


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LD  21A-50m-12,'60 
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General  Library 
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